


The Unspeakable Files: Godspell

by Alohomora (AnotherSpoonyBard)



Series: The Unspeakable Files Universe [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi, Mystery, Unspeakable Files Universe, Unspeakables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6899053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherSpoonyBard/pseuds/Alohomora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Severus and Draco work as Unspeakables, confronting some of the darkest mysteries in the wizarding world. When Draco is hit with an ancient hex, though, it's time to call in some help—from unusual places. Also contains a serial killer, a tomb exploration, librarian!Hermione, character cameos, jokes about paperwork, the slow death of old House prejudices, a fair amount of snark, competent characters, a Christmas party, potential coffee-dependance, and copious quasi-accurate mythology references.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Men-At-Arms

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written based on a prompt given to me by a friend:
> 
> "I'd like a DM/LL or SS/HG (both if possible) that a| contains Norse Mythology as a major component, b| involves some kind of familial bond between Draco and Severus (not blood-related), c| keeps everyone in-character as much as possible (with allowances for things to have changed since the war, depending on how many years you want to put in there) d| is canon-compliant until Snape dies, and then promptly disregards the epilogue. Also e| lemons are a bonus, but only if they actually fit into the story."
> 
> Not really sure if I'll write any lemons, but we'll see, I suppose. Full chapters will be quite a bit longer than this, of course.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fecal matter strikes the oscillatory object. With prejudice.

Draco inhaled deeply, the acrid smell of burning flesh filling his nose. Suppressing the gag reflex that threatened, he fired off another  _Petrificus Totalus_  without a word. His usually-smirking face was set in a deep scowl, one that matched with uncanny accuracy the expression writ across the visage of his only ally in this mad rush. The wand in his hand thrummed with scarcely-contained energy, little more than an extension of his arm. The focus it provided was no longer strictly necessary; long months of training had ensured that, but all the same there was comfort to it. One that in situations like this was most welcome indeed.

The brilliant crimson sparks of a second attack issued from the ebony wood with customary, practiced perfection, but were diffused by a timely counterspell. Swearing under his breath, he smoothly pivoted, Severus at his back echoing the motion without being asked, changing places with him and switching up the game on their opponents. Draco’s eyes flashed with grim satisfaction when his subsequent stunner hit a man square in the temple, and the target dropped like a stone, contacting cold earth with a muffled thud.

It didn't, of course, interrupt his unholy litany of obscenities, murmured more for his own focus and rapidly-fading calm as anything else. It wasn't supposed to be happening like this—they should have had backup by now. Aurors, people from their own department, anything—but they were still alone. Skilled as the both of them were, they'd been caught foolishly flat-footed by the entire thing, unprepared for the sheer numbers of what should have been ordinary smugglers.

"Truly, if you are going to waste your breath so, you may as well incant your spells aloud." Snape’s smooth voice, long trained to perfect stoicism, betrayed no hint of the fact that they were currently outnumbered in what should have been a simple situation. Well, simple for them, anyway. As it was, both had already narrowly missed a fair share of Unforgivables, and Draco was ironically grateful for his own knowledge of the Dark Arts at the moment.

He tsk-ed and rolled his eyes at the rebuke. It was just like his godfather to remain so completely unruffled, even when he himself was starting to feel the heat. His wand moved in a series of sharp gestures too quick to track, and a woman screamed and disappeared with a pop, apparently having apparated in her haste to get away. The swish of heavy fabric behind him indicated that Severus was performing a similar maneuver, only his target didn't make it out in time.

That left five, though these had been made more cautious than their fellows by the fact that the two wizards they faced remained standing for all their efforts. Not without injury: Draco had sustained a laceration to his right forearm, which currently dripped blood at a lazy rate, though he was careful not to let it slick his wand or hand. His mentor was a little better off, with no more than a few minor abrasions here and there, the product of quick reflexes and extensive knowledge. Draco straightened, glaring daggers at the squat wizard most directly in his eyesight. There was something squirrelly about the man, something he instinctively and at once both recognized and was wary of. His steely eyes narrowed, and his grip reflexively tightened on his wand.

For a moment, nobody moved, and he took a half-step backwards, shoring up his position against the flawless posture of his friend. The two wizards, garbed entirely in black, stood on a swath of level ground, their foes forming a rough circle about them. Only experience and skill had kept them alive this long… that, and the fact that nobody had yet hurled an _Avada Kadavra_. All was silent for interminable seconds, breaths, short but controlled, heartbeats, staccato and vigorous.

The next curse was hurtled at him in a language he did not recognize, and because of that, no counterspell presented itself to his mind. Unwilling to dodge and let whatever it was hit Severus in the back, he threw up the most general shield charm he knew. Predictably, it shattered, and he took the curse straight in the chest, only barely maintaining the presence of mind to fall sideways. Winded and unable to cry out, he had to hope that the sound of him hitting the floor beneath them would be enough to alert the Snape to what had happened.

The last thing he saw was the pudgy man's thin lips curling into a smirk worthy of his own father, and then the world went dark around him.


	2. Chapter One: Unspeakables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With few options, Snape calls in a favor from an old acquaintance. Draco is grumpy.

_Four Hours Earlier, The Ministry of Magic_

Draco resisted the urge to yawn, blinking several times to clear his vision. He'd fallen asleep in his office again, tall frame hunched over the cherry-wood desk piled with parchments that needed attention yesterday, last week, and varying other degrees of impatient bureaucrat. None of it was half as important as the work he did in the field or the laboratory, but then of course it was hard to convince a politician of that. Sometimes, he thought things would run much more smoothly if he were allowed to hex the worst of them, but apparently even the Department of Mysteries frowned upon that sort of thing.

Shaking his head, he breezed through the documents as efficiently as possible; he had a legwork job in less than half an hour, and he didn't want to have to worry about anything else after that. A vain hope that he might actually be able to go home and spend a proper night to himself was lingering at the back of his mind, but he pushed it down. He probably needed to put in another public appearance, find something outrageous to do and get himself on the front page of something. He'd been a little too quiet lately. Apparently, the nightclub scene in Transylvania was worth exploration, if one was willing to run the risk of encountering a seedy blood-sucker or two.

He would have laughed when Pansy mentioned that one, but it wasn't really worth explaining that drug-riddled vampires were hardly a concern for someone like him. No, that would definitely be a breach of his confidentiality, and he had been so careful up until this point, even if his double life was beginning to take a toll on his well-being. As long as nobody saw, it was bearable.

The last document was whisked off by the Ministry's interdepartmental communications charm, and he stood, stretching languidly and feeling a small measure of relief when several of the joints in his back popped into place. Exiting his office, he headed into the more general area shared between himself and about three other Unspeakables. Lupin and Greengrass mostly handled consultation cases from foreign jurisdictions, seeing as how they were much more sociable than Draco and his partner. Well, that and people were allowed to know about them. Both were probably at their respective homes at this hour, leaving only Draco and the dead man in the armchair.

Of course, Severus Snape, presently taking meticulous notes on what looked to be an ancient arithmantic text, was not nearly so dead as the wizarding population believed him to be, but that was strictly need-to-know information. He looked up as Draco entered, gracing his protégé with a solemn nod before he went back to his transcription. Draco crossed to the small kitchen area in one corner of the room and summoned them both some coffee. By now he knew that they each took it black, and that Severus preferred his hot enough to singe hair.

The former teacher set aside his work, sending it back into his own office with a lazy wave of his wand, and accepted the cup wordlessly. Only when Draco had settled himself into the chair across from his, propping an ankle on the opposite knee, did Severus speak. "You fell asleep again." It was not a question, and Draco did not treat it as one, instead raising an eyebrow in invitation for his godfather to continue. It was a conversation they'd danced around many times before, and though Snape had been clear in his disapproval of Draco's cultivation of a cover identity, it was not generally in his nature to push.

"Your… fatigue will begin to affect your job performance if you do not cease in your foolishness." For all his flat, unfeeling expression, he wasn't deceiving his audience. Draco had been working with the man for several years—since the end of the war, in fact, when the Ministry had been unable to locate Snape's corpse. It had been the Malfoys, indirectly, who were responsible for his being found and roped into the same harebrained project that had given Draco a job. Now, they and Greengrass were the only three that remained of what had once been a full-on task force of former Dark wizards hunting the same. Predictably, several had turned coat when the numbers looked favorable, and several more had fallen in battle. Others simply quit or chose to go to Azkaban instead—but Draco had not had the option.

His participation—and loyalty—had kept his family alive. Severus, he suspected, had kept him alive for long enough to figure out how to manage the feat himself. Hundreds of missions, cases, and covert operations had given him a read on his godfather's mood that few others had ever managed, and whether or not he would ever admit it, Snape was concerned.

Such a thought would once have brought nothing but a sneer of derision to Draco's aristocratic visage, but now it made him thoughtful instead. Severus did not interfere needlessly in the affairs of others, after all. Leaning back in his chair, Draco sipped his coffee and shrugged. "I'll see what I can do," he replied noncommittally. "You have details on the operation?"

This wasn't a question either, though it was inflected as one. Severus set his cup down and steepled his fingers, likely well aware that Draco had not addressed his implications adequately, but choosing to let it drop. They were on a schedule, after all. "It's another favor for the Auror's Office. Potter—" he paused for Draco's obligatory scoff— "has requested preliminary reconnaissance on what appears to be a violation of international trade bylaws."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Surely even the Aurors can handle a simple smuggling case." Much as it pained him to admit his rival's good qualities even after all this time, Potter was relatively skilled at his craft, even if Draco  _did_  think that nobody should be head Auror at the age of twenty-five. There had to be something else at play if he was outsourcing a job to the Unspeakables, of all people. The two departments were notoriously at-odds, mostly from a methodological standpoint.

Snape shook his head, apparently with his usual understated exasperation. "You forget that the Ministry is hosting the French Minister and his wife—all the Aurors Potter could have spared are being assigned to personal security for the event."

This time Draco did snort. "Security? For Moreau or Shacklebolt?" The Frenchman had something of a reputation for knowing a bit too much about the underground Dark elements remaining in his country, but of course the accusations went no further than vague notions and generalities. He also had a well-publicized dislike of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Severus's lips twitched into a wry smirk, and that was all the answer Draco required. "Fine. Reconnaissance only?"

"Unless we see something egregious in progress, yes. The matter will require a certain degree of… delicacy." Which meant that the assignment would probably be longer than a single mission, but the extensive contacts Draco's family had in the right places and the fact that he was well-known to be a fool with no connection to law enforcement would be of assistance.

"And you?"

"A glamour charm should be sufficient." Draco shrugged. That was true enough. Snape looked somewhat like the man who'd taught him potions, but much had changed, and a charm for advancing his age and changing his hair color would be more than enough to disguise him completely.

"All right. I'll floo home in a minute, and be back in a half-hour. Need anything?" At the negative gesture, Draco stood, banishing his remaining coffee and exiting the office. The nearest fireplace was in the Department of Mysteries proper, and even that was protected by almost as many wards as his family manor.

* * *

Twenty-seven minutes later, Draco was back in his office, wand in hand, black robes pressed carefully, so as to present the image of a wealthy potential buyer. It had become something of a habit of his, this monochrome wardrobe, one that he attributed firmly to his godfather's influence. Occasionally, a girlfriend or acquaintance would mention it and he'd simply shrug it off, making a mental note to try and dress more like an ordinary person when in public.

Smugglers weren't likely to care.

He met the disguised Severus just outside the older man's door, and the two both took hold of the portkey on the table- a simple pair of spectacles. The Aurors had apparently prepared everything for the meeting except the personnel to conduct it, which saved the two of them quite a bit of time.

The customary vertigo ceased, and Draco quickly regained his balance on the ground. Looking around, he was immediately on-guard. They appeared to be in the middle of a clearing—and not another soul was visible. Severus, standing behind him, stiffened considerably, and both men drew their wands.

" _Crucio_!" A foreign voice, thick with some accent Draco could not place, shouted the Unforgivable, and the spell hurtled towards Snape, who grimly deflected with a murmured counterspell. Sometimes, being at the cutting edge of magical research had its benefit. The counter wasn't perfect, and Draco caught the soft grunt as residual traces of the torture curse hit his partner, but there wasn't time to dwell on it.

Draco's  _Expelliarmus_  went off at the same time as Snape's  _Sectumsempra_ , and the wizard who'd attempted to cast the Unforgivable went down screaming. The battle, however, had scarcely begun, and within moments, the two men were surrounded by no fewer than fifteen people, all wand-ready and apparently prepared for their arrival.

* * *

_The same morning, the Lovegood residence_

Luna Lovegood drifted about the kitchen in her home without much discernible aim, occasionally making her way back to the massive cabinet which housed the most exotic of her ingredients. Practiced hands sliced gurdyroot, crushed the gossamer appendages of the aptly-named lacewing fly, and managed to keep the cauldron stirring without the aid of a charm. Not that Luna had anything against charms; quite the contrary, really. But the texture and thickness of this brew was important, and she had to monitor it as closely as possible.

She could hear her father shuffling around behind her, humming an old sea shanty to himself as he went about preparing the morning's coffee, doubtless still in his light purple bathrobe and the slippers that kept the Blibbering Humdingers away from his toes. They were oddly fond of toes, Blibbering Humdingers, and it did irritate him so when one chose to nibble on them.

The potion in the cauldron at last cleared of all color entirely, and Luna smiled a dreamy smile, extinguishing the heat and summoning several glass vials, into which she directed the brew. Stoppering each with a cork, she banished the mess that remained and washed her utensils until they shone, putting each away on the proper hook before rotating her stock of the clear solution, placing the newest vials at the back.

That done, she made herself some tea and toast, and joined her father at the breakfast table.

"Good morning, Daddy," she greeted amiably. "Have you heard back from the Ministry yet about your expedition?"

Xenophilius Lovegood sighed theatrically. "No, I'm afraid I haven't. I don't understand why… I took great pains to inform them that the Crumple-Horned Snorkack will only remain in that part of Mongolia for a short time." Luna hummed a conciliatory syllable in the back of her throat and resumed spreading marmalade over her toast. She was just raising the first bite of breakfast to her mouth when a loud  _crack_  sounded from not too far outside. Her already large eyes went wide, and she and her father both stood immediately. That sounded like apparation, and their wards were supposed to ensure that doing so in such close proximity to their house was impossible.

Luna made to draw the wand from behind her ear, but she was stopped by her father's indulgent smile. "Well, it seems we have guests! Luna, do try to tidy up a bit, will you?"

The young witch stared at her father in a genuine moment of shock. Old instincts, trained into her very being by a year of wizarding war, had tensed her like a rabbit ready to run, but her father seemed not to have a care in the world. Still, she trusted him, and though the wariness clipped her usually airy movements, she waved her wand about, trying to clear the worst of the mess from the sitting room. She and her father were interestingly-harmonious: he perpetrated a kind of organized chaos that meshed surprisingly well with her neat precision. For guests to be accommodated, though, some adjustments would be needed, like clearing off the blue plush sofa.

Once everything had been neatly restacked, Luna turned, hearing the muffled sound of voices from outside. The door was already ajar, but she pushed it open the rest of the way, wand still at the ready.

Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't what she saw. Two figures from her past had walked right into her present, and fate couldn't have picked any more unlikely people.

"Professor Snape?" Indeed, it did seem to be the man himself. He was a little leaner then she remembered him, though conversely less-gaunt. A scar marred his face, crossing the bridge of his nose and cutting over the surface of his left cheek, but she couldn't really consider where it might have come from, because her eyes instead alighted upon the second, unmoving wizard.

Supported by Snape, one arm thrown over the potions-master's shoulders and apparently unconscious, was Draco Malfoy.

* * *

His charge weighed heavily over his back and shoulders, but Severus didn't really notice as he turned them around, apparating both away from the unexpected battlefield and to the first location he could think of.

It was not the practice of Unspeakables to make their emergency trips to any place as public as St. Mungo's, and of course no safehouse had been set up for this mission, since it was nothing more than a routine favor for the Auror's office. His options narrowed, Snape decided to call in a favor of his own, and disapparated directly in front of the Lovegood home.

Staggering slightly under the weight of his partner and his own fatigue, Severus nevertheless straightened as Xenophilius himself appeared at the threshold. The man's far-off expression was always curiously-unreadable, but his old schoolmate replaced it with a pleasant smile when he saw who, exactly, had intruded upon his space.

"Ah, Severus, it is good to see you! It has been many years now, hasn't it? I was beginning to think you'd never call ‘round."

Snape's own face remained a slightly-irritated scowl, and he spoke with a degree of urgency to his usual velvety tones. "Xenophilius. I need access to a bed and your stock of potions ingredients." He had heard a segment of the curse that struck Draco, and the fact that he didn't recognize it meant that he'd have to treat the immediate damage first, then run a series of diagnostics to figure out exactly what his young associate had been hit with.

For some reason that the potions master could not fathom, Lovegood's smile only grew wider. "Oh, I can do you one better than that, Severus."

"Professor Snape?" The new voice forestalled any further explanation he might have given, and Snape glanced up into the (unsurprisingly) confused face of Xenophilius's daughter.

To her credit, Miss Lovegood recovered swiftly, especially once she noticed the condition of his companion. "Come in, quickly." The young woman held the door open, waving her wand and transfiguring what was apparently once a particularly hideous couch into a moderately-sized bed, complete with green-and-silver covers. Snape raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, allowing her to help him arrange Draco on the mattress. With a surprising surety of hand, Miss Lovegood at once removed Draco's outer robes and shoes, pressing a palm to his forehead and muttering several spells that Severus recognized as diagnostic charms.

"My Luna's a mediwitch," Xenophilius explained needlessly. Her former teacher could have guessed as much based on her conduct thus far. "She works mostly in experimental medicine, inventing new spells and potions."

That, Severus had not expected, and for a moment, he quietly watched Miss Lovegood at work. He recalled quite clearly that she had excelled in his class, but then his understanding was that she had excelled in just about all of them, as one would expect of a student in her house. Her knowledge had never been as broad as Miss Granger's, but she had a rare gift for intuiting connections between things that were not always obvious. It had taken even him a while to discover this beneath the odd talk of fantastical creatures, but of course he had known Xenophilius, and thus had understood where the blather originated.

"Daddy, get me two of the pain draughts from the cabinet, if you would. Professor Snape, can you please tell me what happened?" Her voice was no different from the dreamy tone he recalled, but her questions were unusually direct.

Nodding slightly, Severus recounted the strange curse, adding that he believed it had hit Draco in the chest or side. This caused the mediwitch to frown, and she sent Draco's shirt to one of the bedposts with a flick of her wand. The two immediately made eye contact again, confusion reflected in her bright silver irises and passivity in his black ones, though he would admit to a degree of perplexity himself.

There was no visible wound at all.

* * *

Luna chewed her lip, running through her battery of diagnostic spells again to be sure she hadn't missed anything. Professor Snape had tried a few different ones which he told her were for dark magic specifically, but there was still no luck. For all intents and purposes, nothing whatsoever was actually  _wrong_  with Draco. She'd healed the wound on his arm and a few of the smaller cuts on his person, all to no avail. Her former potions-master had waved off all such treatment, taking a curative from her medicine cabinet and sniffing it delicately before nodding slightly to himself and tipping back the vial.

She was sure that if some of her old school friends had been present, there would have been a nose joke in there somewhere, but she had never found it scandalously large. Perhaps that was simply because her father's was similarly aquiline.

For now, Luna sat beside the bed in her living room, trying to devise some other method of figuring out what was wrong with Draco. Tilting her head to one side, she watched the rise and fall of his bare chest, but it seemed to be regular. More than that, even, he appeared to be one of the healthiest people she'd ever come across. His musculature was pronounced, his face unlined, and his entire person seemingly cared for most meticulously. The only indications that something might not be as it seemed were the dark circles beneath his eyes. Glancing back up at her old potions professor, who was currently inspecting her stock of ingredients, she decided that this was what was different about him as well. At the moment, Snape looked tired, but she decided that he was also quite fit, if his forearms were anything to go by, and his hair, if a tad greyed in places, was apparently quite clean. Certainly, he was a far cry from the dead man that everyone had claimed him to be, and Draco did not have the look of a man living the life of luxury the tabloids eagerly followed.

She might have asked the older of the two men if he'd recently been in contact with a Keffering Morackus, since those were supposed to deliver great vitality, but she doubted he'd appreciate the inquiry being framed in such a fashion. As it was, her father saved her the trouble of finding some other way to put her question without being rude.

Descending the stairs, Xenophilius took his customary chair beside the fireplace, gesturing for Snape to occupy the other free seat. To Luna's surprise, the dark-haired wizard complied, crossing one ankle over his opposite knee and steepling his fingers. "Now Severus," her father began good-naturedly, though it did nothing to alter the once-teacher's posture, "I think it's about time you told me why you're here."

An odd look passed over Snape's face for the briefest of instants, but he smoothed it back into his customary impassivity before Luna could decide what it was. He spent a few moments in thought, ostensibly studying his callused fingertips very closely. Luna had to resist the urge to hold her breath in anticipation of his answer.

When he spoke, it was in the same soft lecturing tones he'd always used during the Ravenclaws' Potions classes. "As you well know, after the war several of those with a particular…  _expertise_  in Dark Magic and no lingering connection to Voldemort were silently conscripted into a task force for the ministry. They were charged with hunting down the remnants of the Death Eaters, in cooperation with the Auror Office. It went about as well as you would expect of such a foolish notion, but when all was said and done, both Mister Malfoy and myself were able to secure other Ministry employment."

Xenophilius was nodding along like he did in fact know this, and so Luna realized that the explanation was for her benefit. She turned her gaze to the still-unconscious Draco, wondering just how it had come to be that he was in such a situation in the first place. Unlike some of her friends, she had never truly thought him to be an evil person, just misguided and sad. Several people had disabused her of this notion, explaining with varying degrees of patience that she was "too nice." As she watched, his face tightened into a grimace, and she blinked slowly. That hadn't happened before, and she murmured another charm, this one to check for notable signs of dream interference. The mist that issued from her wand flared an angry red, and she summoned a dreamless sleep draught from her cabinet.

The motion had stopped the conversation, and Snape was at Draco's other side in an instant, helping her prop him up and tip the contents of the bottle slowly into the blond man's mouth. He wasn't swallowing, though, and so Luna ran the back of her fingers slowly down his throat, a trick she'd picked up mostly for use on children. She didn't have the equipment here to properly force it down, so he had to manage on his own.

Her pale digits slid over the smooth skin of Draco's neck, and he swallowed reflexively, bringing a small smile to her face. His own eased almost immediately, and she nodded to Snape, who lowered him back down. "Whatever happens now, it'll be a few hours yet before he wakes."

"If he wakes." To what might have been anyone else's astonishment, there was a genuine note of concern in his voice, but Luna's eyes just softened, and she looked at him with sympathy.

"He will." He looked at her askance, firmly back in his stoic, practical skin, and she smiled wider, not bothering to elaborate on where her absolute confidence came from. "But you were telling us how he got here in the first place." She watched as Snape straightened and crossed back to the chair, sinking into it again.

"I suppose I was."

* * *

Draco's journey back to consciousness was not an easy one. He was first aware of a dull pain in his chest, a lingering echo from something he could not quite recall properly. His limbs felt leaden, unresponsive, though he was on the most comfortable surface he could remember for some time. Soft, not unyielding like the ground he'd fallen on—

His eyes snapped open, and Draco sat up sharply, ignoring the splitting pain this caused and wrenching himself back into consciousness, grasping for his wand. When it wasn't immediately present, he summoned it with wandless magic, the feel of the warm ebony wood in his hand an instant relief, though he did not for a moment drop his guard.

"Draco." At least not until his godfather's voice drifted across open space toward him, unhurried and self-assured as always. The two syllables informed him of everything he needed to know: he was safe, the battle no longer raged about him. He groaned as his eyes finally came into focus, nearly falling backwards onto the bed. Braced by two thin, but strong arms, he found himself looking into a vaguely-familiar face, dominated by the biggest pair of moonsilver eyes he'd ever encountered.

"You're lucky I closed all your open wounds, else you'd surely have ripped them apart again," a soft voice chided, and though it had lost the wispiest edge it had carried in girlhood, he knew he recognized it.

"Lovegood? What the blazes is going on?" She smiled, flashing a row of pristine teeth, and Draco blinked. This had to be a dream of some kind, though why barmy Luna Lovegood was showing up in his dreams now when he hadn't seen her in years was a mystery.

"I brought you here, Draco. Xenophilius owes me a favor, and knows how to keep things to himself. It would appear that Miss Lovegood is a mediwitch." Severus's silken syllables reached him again, and he turned his head, making eye contact with his mentor. The older man appeared to be his usual unruffled self, though the juxtaposition between his somber, all-black robes and the panoply of colors that had seemingly exploded all over the Lovegood sitting-room would have brought a smirk to Draco's face at any other time.

"What's wrong with me?" The question sliced through the empty air, and was met only by a somber silence for a few moments. Draco locked eyes with his godfather, who stared back with what would appear to be equanimity. Clearly, however, Snape was worried. It was barely there, in the tense lines of his posture and the set of his jaw.

A rustle of movement tore his gaze away, and he noted that thin fingers had encircled one of his wrists. Lovegood still wore that damnably-vacant smile, but something in her eyes was more serious. She waved her wand over him a couple of times, and he sat still, recognizing diagnostics when he saw them. Merlin knew he'd been injured so many times in the past few years that he was well on his way to becoming a qualified mediwizard himself, if he could ever get the spells to work properly.

She shook her head, dislodging several strands of golden hair from her braid. "Still nothing. Your pulse is perfectly ordinary, no injuries. It's as if you weren't hit with anything, except for the interference with your dreams…"

Draco scowled as flickers of memory passed over his mind's eye. He did remember that he'd been dreaming, but not of what. Whatever it was, it had been most unpleasant, but all he recalled was great pain and then a soothing touch at his throat.

"Does anything hurt?" The voice came as if over a long distance, and Draco shook himself, returning to full awareness.

"My chest was—" At once, Lovegood pressed a warm hand to the center of the spot, and he stopped speaking to scowl at her. Granted, he knew she was doing what she did for his sake, and he wasn't such a complete prat that he wasn't grateful for what help he'd been given, but people, even healers, generally did not touch Draco Malfoy without his permission. At least not after that time he'd nearly snapped a man's wrist upon waking suddenly after being hit by a particularly nasty bit of dark magic. The little wisp of a woman seemed unafraid, however, and he admitted grudgingly to himself that it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Her hand was actually quite warm, and that warmth seemed to be spreading into his chest cavity, easing the pain and making it easier to breathe.

Both of Draco's eyebrows shot upwards. She was using wandless magic? No easy feat, and no spell he'd ever heard of, either. "Take a deep breath, please," she instructed quietly, and he complied, too perplexed to really do anything else. She smiled, apparently satisfied, and straightened.

"Well, I have good news and bad news." This, she directed to the room as a whole, and Severus inclined his head, indicating that she should proceed. From him, that was downright respect, and Draco was once again left feeling slightly wrong-footed. Where had  _that_  come from? "The bad news is, I have no idea what kind of curse this is," she started, and there was a slight note of perturbation in her tone, much like she'd sometimes used in school when she couldn't find the shoes her housemates had hidden from her. He wasn't sure how he remembered that, but then he figured he'd probably picked on her enough times to know.

"The good news is, some of my spells seem capable of treating the symptoms… for now. It would make the most sense for Draco to go to St. Mungo's—"

"No." Draco refused flatly, even as Severus shook his head.

The older wizard spoke after that, though. "Miss Lovegood, Draco and I are in a rather… delicate position at present. The less anyone knows about this, the better. I am, as you may have guessed, supposed to be dead, and Draco is—"

"—Supposed to be doing nothing more serious with my life than bar-hopping and spending ludicrous amounts of money," he finished with a roll of his eyes. "I can't go to St. Mungo's, or people are going to start asking questions."  _Lots of people. Many of them in very noticeable places_.

Lovegood's lips pursed, and she appeared to consider for a moment, tilting her head to one side and placing the pad of her index finger just underneath her lower lip. "Surely, then, there is someone else, with better equipment, someone that knows already?" She looked vaguely concerned, and for some reason, this irritated Draco. Didn't she know that they would have done that already were it possible?

Again, though, Severus spoke before he could bite out some irascible retort. "It is better for the moment that nobody knows. We were supposed to be on a routine task, but the situation quickly became something else."

"Ambush?" Draco's eyes narrowed to little more than deep grey slits. At first, he'd simply assumed that the Department's numbers were faulty, that they'd underestimated the number of people involved in the operation and their hostility to outsiders, but it seemed that Snape had already moved beyond that conclusion.

"Whatever you were bespelled by is very old magic, Draco, and it seemed quite well-targeted. Whatever is going on, I think it behooves us to trust as few people as possible, and arm ourselves with information before we proceed any further." Snape sat back in his chair, eyes glittering as the wheels turned in his head. Draco knew him well enough to say that he already had an idea of just where they might find that information, but he was also aware that Severus shared nothing until he wished to, and he trusted his godfather enough to swallow his pointed questions, for the moment.

After another prolonged silence, Severus turned to the elder Lovegood. "Xenophilius, do you still have your contact at the library of Alexandria?" The wizard nodded slowly, smiling to himself, and Draco wondered just how it was that the old man was so unperturbed by what was happening. Both of the Lovegoods seemed to be handling it with an uncanny ease, actually, but Xenophilius didn't even seem confused, much less distressed, by the presence of a two former Death Eaters—one of them a dead man.

"I do indeed, Severus. I'll owl right away and see if I can't get you an appointment. It may take a few days." From the tone of his voice, it was fairly certain that he would be able to get them one, and Snape inclined his head. That was something else Draco didn't understand. As far as he could recall, the wizarding community at large considered Xenophilius Lovegood to be a barmy old bat, but Severus seemed familiar with him, and almost respectful. The man himself was peculiar, but mad might have been a stretch.

Snape pinned him with a look then, and Draco knew that at least a few of these things would be explained to him, once they could be assured of secrecy. The younger man looked down at his hands for a moment, riddled with a dozen tiny scars since his last glamour charm had worn off, then ran one through his hair, disheveling it further. That left the question of—

"I—" Lovegood had started to speak, but at that moment, Xenophilus barked a "Stupefy!" from the kitchen, and within a second, all three other people in the house were on their feet, wands at the ready. There was a muffled thud, and the sound of something heavy hitting one of the shrubs outside, and the elder gray-haired man was back in the living room, a few flyaways and the presence of his wand in his hand the only indicators of distress.

"Severus, I do suspect that we may have some uninvited company." He gestured airily to the front door, and Draco moved to follow, but Snape glared, and the meaning was clear enough.

"Miss Lovegood, ensure that he does nothing rash." Her answering nod had Draco gritting his teeth.  _Ridiculous_. There was simply no way to tell how many were out there, and he couldn't say he had that much faith in Xenophilius's ability with a wand. His free hand balled into a fist, and he noticed that beside him, Lovegood was looking at the motion with a sort of indolent curiosity.

"Exercise is one of the best forms of physical therapy," she informed him in that misty voice of hers, and it took him a second to register what she was saying. He would have spent a second moment in surprise that she was condoning running recklessly out after them, but she'd already grasped his free arm by the wrist and was pulling him along behind her as she made for what appeared to be a back door, just off the kitchen.

Setting his face into its mask of perfected confidence, Draco let her lead the way for now. Hopefully, these people would have some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks!
> 
> So, that was actually a full chapter. Mostly set-up, but necessary to get things going. Hermione should be making an appearance soon, and I have other roles and cameos planned for other people as well. While this story is already mostly done (I have about 18 chapters by this point), I'm still down for suggestions for character cameos.


	3. Chapter Two: Misfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus and Draco have been followed. There's a fight, and an escape nearly goes awry.

_Late morning, outside the Lovegood residence_

Snape cast another round of  _Incendio_ , the resultant gout of flames catching on the robes of one of this new wave of attackers. The witch howled as her steel-grey clothes became a bright conflagration of crimson and gold. Another lash of his wand sent a silent  _Confringo_  at a group, the blasting spell knocking several back at once.

His ruthless efficiency was a marked contrast to Xenophilius beside him, who thus far had disarmed one opponent, transfigured another's wand into a small flock of birds, and set yet another to singing uncontrollably with a deftly-placed  _Cantis_. All of these things worked, of course, for it seemed that none of their assailants was able to cast without a wand, or the proper usage of their voice. The senior Lovegood appeared most amused by his handiwork, as if the entire ordeal were an entertaining lark for a Sunday morning.

To Severus's own eyes, it most certainly was not. There were another twenty to go yet, and the sheer numbers boded worse news if they survived. Someone with quite a surplus of resources wanted to do them some serious harm, and he was uncertain that the two of them alone would be able to survive this if killing curses began to hit the air.

A stinging hex reverberated off of his  _Protego Horribilius_  shield, dashing another wizard with its effects instead. A few more broad-area spells later, the attackers were scattered and defensive, though still numerous. As with all confrontations of this nature, keeping any of them from thinking too much was going to be important, and in this respect, the strange mixture of the ridiculous and the painful being hurtled at them would help.

From his peripheral vision, Snape caught sight of a jet of orange headed for Xenophilius, and knew even his reflexes would be unable to summon another shield in time. The first syllable of a warning had scarcely formed on his lips when a fierce, feminine cry reached him over the din.

" _Finite Incantatem_!" The sparks vanished in midair, and from behind the house, what appeared to be a string of unconscious bodies in their wake, emerged Miss Lovegood and a grimacing Draco. They were forming a rough circle with himself and his old schoolmate scant seconds later, and though he very much wanted to rebuke the both of them for insubordination and foolishness, he could not deny that the two extra wands were necessary at present, and so he stayed his customary acidic tongue.

Instead, Severus shifted, planting his feet more firmly upon the ground, and shot a look to his godson on his right. The blond youth nodded curtly, and the two raised their wands as one, taking a step forward and hurling a barrage of raw kinetic force. There were several variants on the blasting spell, and they chose theirs at random to avoid a complete block.

Severus followed the trajectory of his own attacks and noted with grim satisfaction that a few of their assailants were on the ground and no longer moving, but at that moment a concussive blast went off far too close and knocked him sideways, ears ringing. Staggering to recover, he snapped his head to the side, trying to pick out the enemy that had gotten so close, only to find that Draco was standing stock-still, a look of outright confusion plastered over his face. The young man's wand seemed to be smoking at the end, and something approaching fear flashed across his features before Xenophilius stepped in front of him to deflect an incoming stunner.

There wasn't enough time to ponder it presently, and Severus turned back to his task, joining Miss Lovegood, whose spells were much more practical than her father's, including one that bewitched several of the garden statues to life. The stone creatures, most of them unrecognizable as anything that corresponded to reality, charged the line of foes, drawing away much of their offensive capability, but not all of it.

Snape hissed like the serpent so many of his students had assumed him to be when the tail of a poorly-aimed flame struck his upper arm. From the way Miss Lovegood was holding her wand, it seemed something was numbing her good hand, causing it to dangle uselessly at her side. Xenophilius was sporting several singed hairs and bleeding from somewhere around his ribcage.

A  _Bombarda_  hit the ground near his own feet, and Severus was pelted by shrapnel. "Perhaps now would be a good time to leave?" Xenophilus suggested over the din, and much as he disliked the notion of fleeing, Snape recognized that it was the most strategically-viable option they had.

"Draco, take Miss Lovegood—Safehouse Nine." So saying, Severus swiftly grasped Xenophilius by the elbow and turned them both around, disapparating with a faint pop.

There was, in fact, no Safehouse Nine. Unspeakable and Auror safehouses were generally set up on a rotating schedule, according to the needs of individual assignments. The very reason Severus had taken Draco to the Lovegood home to begin with was because such a location had been deemed unnecessary for their last assignation. Safehouse Nine was a code phrase used to designate Snape's former residence at Spinner's End. Because of the risk of alerting nearby Muggles, it was not usually wise to apparate directly there, and the potions stores in the home were pitiful besides, but they had little choice remaining to them.

His boots hit the flagstones of the street with an air of finality, the space inhabited by no living creature save themselves. Snape relinquished his grip on Xenophilius, who seemed generally unperturbed by the still-seeping wound in his side or the fact that he was in nothing but a housecoat and slippers, both a rather repulsive shade of lavender and covered in debris, scorched patches, and blood.

Severus had a bit more concern, seeing as how the neighborhood was a non-magical one, and such things were likely to draw the kind of attention that required oblivation. Striding to the door, Snape disarmed his wards and swung the door inward, waving the other man in. The elder Lovegood did him the courtesy of casting a  _Lumos_  to light the dingy house.

Precisely one minute later, neither Draco nor the younger Lovegood had put in an appearance, and the two men exchanged glances. "Stay here," Snape intoned softly, and Xenophilius shook his head, mouth pressed into an unusually-grim line.

"She's my daughter, Severus." The words were pronounced with every ounce of solemnity Snape would never have thought him to possess. It was still foreign to him, the degree of devotion some parents showed to their children. He was aware that this man's own love for his child had placed him in some rather morally-grey areas in the past, but he would be a hypocrite of the worst kind if he allowed this to color his perception of someone else overmuch.

None of this made his implied suggestion logical. "You are injured," Severus pointed out flatly. "What is more, I intend to go back silently, and that is a skill I  _know_  you do not possess." Not actually an insult, but a mere statement of fact. "One of us needs to stay in case they arrive in worse condition than we left them." This, there was no denying, and at last Xenophilius nodded his reluctant acquiescence, and Snape quickly cast a disillusionment charm upon himself. Noiseless apparation was a bit trickier, but still entirely possible.

* * *

_Location unknown, a forest_

No sooner had Draco grasped Lovegood's arm and disapparated them both than he was aware of the ground rushing up to meet them.

The two contacted dirt with muffled thuds, each still connected by a grip on the other's wrist. With the air temporarily knocked out of his lungs, Draco spent a moment attempting to at once get his bearings and recover his breathing. Silence surrounded them, cloaking the young witch and wizard in comfortable ambivalence. Wherever they were, their presence seemed to provoke nothing, which meant that they were probably safe—for the moment. A rustle from beside him; he supposed Lovegood was righting herself. For a moment, Draco entertained the notion of just remaining there, facedown in the dirt and wallowing in his shame, but apparently she wasn't going to have that.

There was an insistent tugging on his wrist. "Draco, it isn't wise to lie there like that. There might be—" she cut herself off as Draco wrenched himself upright, not particularly eager to hear about what manner of nonexistent creature lingered in forest dirt. She smiled serenely at him, but his own face dropped into a scowl, which caused her to tilt her head to one side. "Are you all right?"

The question was so harmless, so completely benign and well-meaning that it rubbed him entirely the wrong way at the moment. "Of course not!" he rasped, his tones losing all of their enforced cool modulation as the stress of the situation took over. "I can't cast a simple blasting spell or apparate, and now I'm in the middle of nowhere with bloody barmy Loony Lovegood and who the hell knows when they're going to find me again?"

To her credit, Lovegood did not once flinch as Draco did what Malfoys did best: attempt to deflect blame and responsibility by personally attacking someone. He thought he'd mostly moved past the tendency, but it seemed that he had not, and some small part of him was displeased by this, a guilty twinge in the back of his mind. For the most part, though, he was just distressed. Distressed, aggravated, and—there it was— _ashamed_  that he seemed to have lost control of his magic. Every spell he'd tried to cast since following her out the back door of her home had gone wrong somehow: his stunner had hurled a man thirty feet and into a tree, his blasting hex had detonated far earlier than he'd intended, his  _Incendio_  had burned his own fingers, and he'd apparated them to someplace he did not recognize.

Rather than the vocalized response he would have expected—the quiet verbal lashing Severus would have given him or the more heated diatribe he'd received so often from the tongues of Potter and his friends—he felt the hand still in her grip being gently flipped over, making the burns more obvious. Curious despite himself, he turned his head to see what she was doing.

Lovegood held his hand on her knees, but only with one of her own. Her lips moved in a quiet incantation, and then her other one flexed a few times. He realized then that she'd also been injured, and another small flare of shame made itself known in those little places one keeps regrets. She, of course, didn't seem to notice his well-concealed self-indulgence, and took hold of her wand, speaking again, this time louder. A cool relief spread over his burns, and he watched with unwitting fascination as the charred flesh was made new again. Burn wounds were notoriously difficult, even for some medical professionals, but she handled them with the same odd equanimity as she showed most everything else. Apparently satisfied with her handiwork, Lovegood patted his hand and relinquished her grip, still smiling as though he hadn't just insinuated that she was mad.

Feeling strange, he snatched his hand back and stretched it experimentally. No pain at all. "It's not your fault, you know." She said quietly, and his eyes snapped back to meet her own, narrowing dangerously. He was about to ask her just what she thought she knew about anything when she continued. "I think whatever you were hexed with is interfering with your magic. At first, it seemed like it was just a dream-influencing curse, but now… it may be more than that. Dreams are very close to magic, you know, and if it can damage one, it may be disrupting the other as well."

Draco's left eyebrow ascended his forehead, a small show of what was in fact a raging skepticism. He'd never heard of any such connection between magic and dreams, but if she was right, it meant that there was an explanation for their plight which didn't hinge on him being a complete failure as a wizard, and his ego appreciated that.

It only made him slightly less frustrated, though. "I still have no idea where we are," he groused, scanning the trees surrounding them for anything that might yield a clue. Of course, to him forests all looked mostly the same, and though he knew enough about herbology to say that these were coniferous trees, that didn't really narrow the options.

"Well, that's no problem," Lovegood replied. "I can still apparate us." Draco's teeth clenched at the reminder of his present powerlessness, but he refrained from snapping at her again. He needed her to get where he was going—and he also had to admit to himself that she didn't really deserve his ire. Much as her demeanor baffled him, she was indeed attempting to help him, willingly at that.

"Yes, but you don't know where we're going," he pointed out, trying not to let his aggravation seep through.

"Well, if I took us to somewhere with a floo network, would that do?" Draco considered. He knew there was a fireplace at Spinner's End, but he couldn't remember if Snape had connected it to the floo or not. Since it was possible to protect such entrances, it was often a preferred method of travel for the Unspeakables, but connections could be tampered with if the saboteur were determined enough.

Still, they had little choice. "It's worth a try, I suppose." Draco braced his hands on his knees, pushing himself up until he was standing. His body had undergone quite a bit of abuse in the past few hours, and healing or not, he was going to need some bedrest before everything was repaired.

Lovegood followed, flowing to her feet with a fair bit more grace than he. At his speculative look, she only smiled mysteriously and took his hand in hers. Draco was going to protest, but it soon became apparent that she was doing that  _thing_  again, the one where the warm feeling spread from her hand into his very bones, easing the ache and loosening the tension in his coiled muscles.

He supposed that was all right, then.

* * *

_Spinner's End_

Severus had returned to the site of the Lovegood residence, only to be both frustrated and relieved by the lack of human presence. On the one hand, it meant he still had no idea where Draco was. On the other, it meant he probably wasn't dead, and Miss Lovegood was likely with him. Of all the people to take with oneself into an unknown situation, a trained mediwitch wasn't a poor selection, though it did make his own life considerably more difficult.

He felt some measure of responsibility for his godson, and though the two did not often speak of it, they were inextricably linked by events beyond their control. From the moment he had taken that Unbreakable Vow upon Dumbledore's orders, their lives were twined in the entire mess that would follow. From there, the Ministry had interfered, and it seemed now that  
Draco was the closest thing to family Severus had.

Not that he went searching for such things, mind, but in the end and despite the opinions of many a student, even Snape was a human being, and it was not beyond his nature to recognize such bonds for what they were. Draco was his student, his friend, and above all, someone else who knew what it was to gaze upon heroism from the outside, your own hands stained with too much blood to approach and stand in the light with those not so corrupted by years of dirty work. It was a grey existence, on the fringes of everything and at the center of nothing, but for the last few years it had been precious succor that he was no longer the only one that understood this.

His teeth grit together, and he pressed his lips into a firm line as he entered the house again. Xenophilius seemed to have cleaned himself up and repaired his clothes, transfiguring them into daywear that nevertheless looked extremely odd, a clashing of color and pattern that broadcasted his well-known eccentricity. The elder Lovegood was sharp enough to understand the crease in Severus’s brow for what it was, and slumped in the seat he occupied.

He was opening his mouth to explain what he had not found when his eye was drawn to the small fireplace at the center of his dingy sitting room. The flames, presumably lit by Xenophilius, flashed a brilliant emerald-green, and he heard the muffled sound of voices. The first, masculine and cultured, gave off a tone of irritation, though the words were indiscernible. They were followed by a much more feminine murmur, and a few seconds later, the figures of Draco and Miss Lovegood appeared in the fireplace, her slender arms wrapped about his waist, presumably from necessity—the hearth was of small Muggle construction, not designed with transport in mind, and would be difficult to fit through.

Hunching, they both stepped out into the living room, and Draco breathed an obvious sigh of relief when he saw Severus, who was privately equally assuaged. Outwardly, however, he crossed his arms and assumed a scathing tone. "Would you care to explain, Draco, why it is that you cannot follow a simple instruction?" He watched with interest as his godson's face took on a pinkish tinge. This apparently prompted Miss Lovegood to disengage from him, and she turned to face Severus.

"It isn't Draco's fault," she explained, expression for once devoid of its customary vague dreaminess. "It seems that the hex is interfering with his magic." Eyes as sharp as flecks of obsidian turned that acuteness upon the young man, and he simply nodded his acquiescence, probably not trusting himself to speak. Draco was rightfully proud of his abilities as a wizard; he had taken to Snape's more advanced instruction with a fervor and understanding that reminded Severus of himself at times. This circumstance was without a doubt an enormous personal blow, but he was going to have to move past that.

For once, the stoic potions-master allowed a hint of his frustration to bleed into his demeanor, and pinched the bridge of his hawkish nose between his thumb and index finger. This meant plans would have to be adjusted. "Very well. Draco, you must return home and assume your ordinary activity for a while. Do not use magic in public. Miss Lovegood, can I ask you to accompany him and do what you can to treat his present symptoms and any that might arise?"

She was halfway through her nod when Draco made a noise of protest. Snape raised an eyebrow in invitation of the coming argument, but his scowl made it clear that the ensuing reasoning had better be worth his time.

"That's not going to work," Draco protested. "She can't be traveling back and forth to the Manor every day. Those people have tracking spells, and unlike this place, most locations aren't warded against them." He crossed his arms over his chest, an old defensive mechanism that his godfather recognized and had learned to dread. It meant he was feeling particularly stubborn.

Severus didn't see the problem, and moved to shut down the debate as succinctly as possible. "Then she stays at the Manor for a while."

Draco shook his head fiercely. "You must be joking. That would draw so many unanswerable questions I don't even want to—"

Snape waved a hand, cutting off his partner. The fact that Draco insisted on maintaining this ridiculous cover identity was something of a sticking point between them. Things would be much easier if he simply went the way of his parents and withdrew entirely from public life. If nobody ever saw him, nobody would think to ask what he was doing with his time. "Invent a story, Draco. You seem to be rather good at that. Would a sick parent not sufficiently deflect suspicion? A live-in doctor is not so unusual that it warrants this much protest."

Draco scowled and looked like he was about to fire back, but Severus's cold look silenced him. He was making this more complicated than it needed to be, and Snape had the suspicion that it was some form of personal problem with Miss Lovegood that was causing it. The older wizard could understand disliking certain people, but that had only stopped him from cooperating with them as he must in his worst moments. It was a lesson Draco had yet to fully embrace, but that did not mean he would be indulged.

"Xenophilius…"

The other man smiled in his usual vacant way. "Oh, don't worry about me, Severus, I think I'll be quite fine here. Redecorate a little bit, and it shall be just like home." Snape dreaded to think about what was going to happen to the interior of his house, but said nothing. It was too important to keep Xenophilius out of the line of fire at the moment.

"Fine. I will be going to the Library of Alexandria in a few days to see what your contact there can help me find on the nature of this curse. In the meantime, I would like Miss Lovegood to keep notes on Draco's condition, if you would?" The last words were directed at the young woman in question, and she smiled brightly and nodded.

"Of course."

"Good. In that case, I recommend you both floo to the Malfoy Manor as quickly as possible and inform Lucius and Narcissa of exactly as much as they need to know to stop them from asking questions." Both had a vague idea of what their son did for a living, but of course the Department of Mysteries was so secretive that the vast majority of people had no idea what Unspeakables were even supposed to be.

It was quite a bit more than most would ever guess.


	4. Chapter Three: The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's having nightmares. Severus calls on Xenophilius's contact in Alexandria. Hermione sees a ghost.

_Malfoy Manor_

Draco tugged against the irons that held his arms out to his sides, but found that the tempered steel would not give. His next recourse was to reach for the deep wellspring of magic within himself, in an attempt to draw it to the surface and direct it to his will, just as he'd been taught. But with every attempt, he found himself unable to focus, his mind hazed over with a dull sensation of drowsiness, as though he had either just been roused from a deep sleep or had not rested for days. Only, even then he should have been able to— 

All thought was cut off as something dripped into his face. Closing his eyes on instinct, he bit down on his own tongue, blood flooding his mouth as he struggled not to scream. The sensation was beyond anything he'd ever experienced, beyond even the  _Cruciatus_ , delivered by the Dark Lord himself. It felt as though his face was splitting to the bone along the insidious lines traced by the mysterious fluid. He thrashed from side to side, but he was bound by the ankles, feet spread wide, and prone on his back, scarcely able to shift at all. The chilly iron of the shackles cut into the smooth skin that covered his joints, but he scarcely noticed.

 _Drip, drip, drip_. Each one was a thousand stinging lashes, and he knew nothing else. Surely, his flesh was being eaten away by something at once caustic acid and necrotic, languid decay.

Draco was many things. He was a skilled wizard, a master manipulator, and a sharp intellectual when the situation demanded it. But in the number of all the things he was, brave was not included. His courage, his resolve, had failed him at crucial moments in the past, and he suspected that it would always do so. This was not normally an obstacle; things that could be faced with foolhardy courage could also be met with wit or strength or cunning.

As he lay there, unable to hold his silence any longer and screaming until his throat was raw, he wished that for once in his life, he were brave.

* * *

Without warning, Draco was ripped from his fitful sleep and thrust into the world of the living once more. Sitting up with a start, he ran one hand down his face, almost as if to make sure it was still there. His palm came away slicked with sweat, and he realized that his blankets and sheets were all twisted, thrown about haphazardly, one even torn.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, which was odd, because he had very dark blackout curtains over his windows, for the days when he had to sleep while the sun was out. He was not often given the luxury of choosing his own hours, not that it made much difference. Even as he squinted against the light pouring in from his floor-to-ceiling window, a melodic hum met his ears, and he groaned, half-tempted to fling himself back onto the bed with dramatic flourish. Alas, he doubted it would change anything, especially given present company.

"Lovegood, what did I tell you about this?" How she managed to get into his room at all was still beyond him. It wasn't as though he hadn’t warded the door. She had made a habit of this, coming into his room at whatever time she pleased and throwing the curtains open to awaken him. To say he was displeased by this development would be rather understating things.

Instead of replying directly, which she rarely ever did anyway, she turned from where she had been facing the pane of glass and smiled, clasping her hands behind her back. "You were dreaming again." It wasn't a question by any means, but her tone invited him to comment.

He was slowly growing to hate that. In recent years, Draco had become rather terse on his own time, only forcing the chatter when he absolutely had to, mostly around people he didn't like. It wasn't as though Snape was much of a conversationalist, and both Lupin and Greengrass knew how to keep their mouths shut, too. Lovegood, apparently, didn't understand the value of silence. "And?"

"Was it any clearer this time?" Her voice was suffused with a note of understanding so gentle it was almost tender, and he bristled on instinct.

"No." His answer was nearly barked, perhaps would have been, save that it was too soft and still groggy with the last vestiges of fatigue. He really didn't want to talk about it, but she seemed adamant to know about the most miniscule details of his nighttime phantasms. He supposed he understood why, since they were really the only clue as to what was happening to him, but that didn't mean he enjoyed divulging private details to someone like Lovegood. He didn’t enjoy divulging them to anyone.

He stared hard at his hands, willing her to just go away, but of course it was never that easy. He felt something shift at the foot of his bed, and looked up to see that she had sat there, apparently unbothered by the fact that he was trying very studiously to ignore her. He glared, but was met only with a vaguely pleasant smile. "I think you could use some time out today," she offered sagely, and he snorted.

"I was out all last night, if you remember." Of course she had to; he'd forced her to cast a disillusionment charm on herself while he hopped clubs in Bulgaria for a while. His cover identity was still important to him, regardless of what Snape thought of it, and he wasn't about to be seen in public with Luna Lovegood of all people. That would certainly get gossip tongues wagging, but in all the wrong ways. So she'd followed him around, invisible, and apparated him home at the end of it all.

"I do. I think that Hungarian witch was rather disappointed she wasn't invited back here." Draco's eyes narrowed; he scrutinized the statement for the judgment he was expecting, but instead it was stated in much the same simple, factual way that Lovegood said just about everything, and he found that there was simply nothing to be angry about. This was almost frustrating in itself, but whatever snipe might have been born of it sputtered out before it could so much as pass his lips, mostly because she kept on talking.

"But I don't mean time in public, Draco. When was the last time you had a day off, from both your job and your other self?" The question was posed so innocently, so devoid of admonishment, that he wasn't able to brush it off the same way he did all of Severus's pointed queries to this effect, and therefore he simply shrugged, truly unsure of the answer. This only stretched Lovegood's silly smile wider, and she nodded sagely.

"I think I've just the thing."

* * *

_Alexandria, Egypt_

Snape had chosen to appear at the Library of Alexandria in Egypt as himself. This was for a number of reasons, the primary one being that he really didn’t think a disguise was necessary. Since his face had never been well-publicized (a conscious decision on his own part), he was in little danger of being recognized, and nobody was actively searching for a dead man. Besides, the contact he was seeing was apparently someone Xenophilius knew and trusted, which meant Severus could, to some extent at least, trust them as well.

It was a little-known fact that Xenophilius had once worked for the Department of Mysteries himself, before the death of his wife. He'd been in Research and Development, which mostly kept him out of the field, but also ensured that he had an extensive network of magical scholars and researchers at his disposal. A few of these contacts, he still maintained, and a few had been made during his short stint back at the department after the war, when it had needed his help to rebuild itself.

The Library was at the edge of the magical section of the city. Once an exclusively muggle edifice, the place had been saved from the fires that supposedly destroyed it by the wizarding community, and repurposed to hold an even grander collection of works, mostly magical, but the occasional muggle text was still interspersed in the great rows of shelving. Original works by Avicenna, Protagoras, the Buddha… some of those supposedly muggle thinkers were more magical than mundane, but to exactly what extent was a piece of information that history had swallowed, leaving only speculation in its wake.

The building itself contained stone shelves, floor-to-ceiling, packed together in narrow rows bespelled against dust, fire, insects, and damp. Names shone out from spines bound in simple leather or more exotic materials: basilisk scales, bark—a few of the more… archaic tomes were probably bound in human skin as well. That had been more common, in ancient times, when dark magic was not nearly so constrained nor frowned upon as it was presently.

As Xenophilius had advised, Snape walked briskly past the desk situated in the front of the library, headed for the section marked  _Ancient Texts: Hermeneutics, Hexes, and History_. This was apparently not an exhaustive list of the material contained within, but then given that it apparently dealt with the miscellany of all things sufficiently aged, such a list would likely have been impossible to summarize with any accuracy in a short space. In other words, it was where he was most likely to find an obscure piece of information about something even he had never heard of before.

The contact was apparently the librarian on shift at the moment, and the elder Lovegood had assured him that she was trustworthy, which would have to be enough for now. Of course, he did not simply intend to leave it at that-—measures would need to be taken to ensure that no information that passed between them was ever repeated, but there were enough non-harmful ways to do that to satisfy him in the interim.

Things became progressively more cramped as Severus continued backwards into the far reaches of the library; doubtless, few people outside the scholarly community had much reason to visit this particular section. Indeed, even the memos whizzing by in the front sections of the place decreased in frequency until everything was truly silent. Well, save the slight shuffling he could hear from a few rows over, accompanied by the sound of books being levitated back onto their shelves with the occasional murmured  _Wingardium Leviosa_. At least he knew where to go.

Severus rounded the corner at about the same time as the librarian turned in his direction. Upon eye contact, the both of them froze- he trying to decide if he needed to go for his wand and obliviate her right that moment, and she almost-comically ceasing in the middle of brushing her hands off.

He immediately took in the details of the situation, as was automatic for him by this point. She was a fraction of an inch taller than he remembered, though still on the short side for a woman. What had once been a riotous mass of brown frizz was now a bit tamer, and the edge of obstinate determination had softened somewhat. However, and this was the problematic part, he was still quite certain that he was looking straight at Miss Hermione Granger.

* * *

"You want me to do  _what_?" Hermione kept her voice to a very-agitated whisper, which was considerably better than a few minutes before, when she'd been so startled to see the face of what must have been a ghost that she'd almost hexed him to oblivion. Snape's own control had been considerably better than hers, and he'd disarmed her without words or even a visible movement, which had apparently countered her surprise with a different kind of shock, allowing her to register what was going on.

He still hadn't given her wand back, the git.

"You must take an Unbreakable Vow not to reveal my existence, as well as any information I give you, to anyone." In contrast to her harried facial expression and obvious irritation, her former teacher's voice was as smooth and unruffled as ever, and she fought back her old reactions to it.

Something Hermione had never told Harry or Ron was that she had, as a child, found the modulated tones rather soothing. As a teenager… well, they'd done something entirely different to her, and apparently the soft baritone had not lost the effect quite yet.

"And just why should I do that? You could be involved in—" she cut herself off as his eyes narrowed dangerously. Swallowing, she realized that it really was unfair, what she'd been about to suggest. Still, it wasn't as though this sort of thing happened every day, and she was reasonable enough to forgive herself for jumping to conclusions, especially since she’d caught herself.

He, apparently, was not so gracious. "Miss Granger, if you would like to accuse me of Dark loyalties, I would be equally happy to obliviate you where you stand." He waited for a moment, and it didn't take any more than that for the gears to click into place in Hermione's head.

He had her alone, defenseless without her wand, and she clearly had the advantage of knowing his secret, yet he had not moved to attack or restrain her in the slightest. Feeling slightly shamed, Hermione colored a bit and sighed. This was the man who'd died (well, apparently not, but still) to protect the secret of the Elder Wand's ownership from Voldemort. This was the man who'd been so very loyal to Dumbledore that he'd been willing to kill the older wizard at his request and endure the hatred and revulsion of those who no longer knew they were his allies, to say nothing of the years he spent in feigned service to the most dangerous man in the world, with nothing more than his skills in magic and subterfuge to keep him from being discovered.

Next to that, she could at least _try_ to forgive the complete and utter bastard he'd been sometimes.

"Well?" the question, its singular syllable slightly drawn out in that way he had that constituted neither drawl nor brogue. It clearly prompted her to say something, and for once, she complied without arguing.

"I'll do it, but I want to know everything." She fixed him with her best obstinate look, and Snape seemed to spend a moment in consideration of this.

"In time, perhaps." Her eyes widened; she hadn't been expecting even that much of a concession. They were both smart enough to know that she wasn't just talking about the immediate circumstances which brought him to the library, but about what had happened since she last saw him alive. Even the possibility of learning the tale was extraordinary by her reckoning of him. So Hermione sighed through her nose, probably for the fifth time that encounter, though she couldn't really be sure, and nodded firmly.

"We're going to need an oath-taker, I guess…"

* * *

_Some time later, Librarian Granger's office_

Xenophilius, delighted to be in Egypt, folded his wand back into his sleeve and smiled at both Severus and Hermione. "Well, I'm glad to see that everything worked out. I told you I knew splendid people here at the Library, didn't I, Severus?" The dark-haired man did not respond, but Xenophilius obviously hadn't really expected him to. Instead of lingering, the older wizard beamed a smile at Hermione and turned on his heel, presumably off to do whatever he pleased in Alexandria.

Hermione's eyes found their way back to Snape, and she discovered to some discomfiture that his were already fixed on her. For a moment, she considered saying something, prompting him to perhaps tell her what was going on, but something heavy in the atmosphere stayed her tongue. Instead, she watched him as he dropped his own gaze to his sleeve and tugged it back down over his forearm. He glanced about the room afterward, taking in the tall stacks of tomes and scrolls with a practiced eye. Something wasn't quite right, though, and the more Hermione thought about it, the more confident she became that he didn't really know what to say. It struck her as odd at first: the man was, for all his faults, the essence of poise and composure, but she supposed there was no way to be prepared for this situation. She certainly wasn't, and she liked to be prepared for  _everything_.

"Um, Professor?" she started, hesitating slightly. It was a rather unfortunate truth that he still managed to intimidate her, but then he seemed to have changed, too. He certainly  _looked_  different—healthier.

The old form of address seemed to snap him back into an equally-antique mode of communication, and the two fell back into their roles without much difficulty, if with a little more respect. "Miss Granger." The response lacked the bite it had once carried, and the man gestured for her to sit before taking an armchair himself with the utmost self-assurance. Perhaps it should have offended her that he was asking her to take a seat in her own (tiny) office, but this too was part and parcel with the dynamic they'd fallen into.

"I suppose an explanation is on order." She couldn't agree more, but she judiciously avoided saying so.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor_

A few minutes after Lovegood departed his room, Draco had showered and dressed, joining his family downstairs for breakfast. Both of his parents were finishing up their meal, and he realized it must have been later than he'd initially estimated. If Lovegood hadn't woken him, he'd have missed the occasion entirely, which was not generally allowed unless he was working odd hours.

"Draco," his father greeted smoothly, sparing him a glance before turning his eyes back down to the Daily Prophet. The front-page article was about the ongoing visit of the French Minister of Magic, and featured a portrait of a trim middle-aged man with a smirk on his face, waving to a crowd of supporters.  _I hope Shacklebolt knows what he's getting himself into,_  Draco thought absently, passing his mother and laying the customary kiss on her cheek before taking his seat across from her.

"Good morning, dear," she greeted with a good deal more warmth than Lucius. Not that there was anything particularly unusual about that. His father had never been the most expressive man, and it had likely saved his life more than once. Even Narcissa had an elegantly-crafted mask, she just wore it less often. "You simply must try this quiche."

Draco was about to ask why that was when Lovegood appeared from inside the kitchen, trailed by one of the Malfoy house-elves, Moxie, and levitating three plates in front of her. She set one down next to Lucius, replacing the one that Moxie took away, and the patriarch nodded in her direction. "Miss Lovegood."

If Draco had been eating already, he probably would have choked. His father's tone contained absolutely no condescension, or the normal haughty arrogance that he projected. In fact, Lucius almost sounded  _pleased_. The next plate landed in front of Draco, and he picked up his fork cautiously even as Luna took a spot next to his mother and set about consuming her own.

By now, Draco was confused by a number of things. His father's politeness towards someone who he'd always been told was a social pariah was not least among them, but also puzzling was the fact that unless he missed his guess, Lovegood had actually cooked this, which meant that she had to have found some way to convince Moxie that she should be allowed to do some of the devoted house-elf's work. As far as he knew, elves were near-suicidal when they weren't allowed to do the work they thought of as theirs, but apparently the odd chit had managed it, and also somehow appeased his parents.

"Draco, have you invented a way of eating with your eyes?" Lovegood was looking at him curiously, as was his mother, and he realized he had yet to actually lift his fork. Doing so hesitantly (how trusting should he be of something made by Loony Lovegood, really?), he managed a bite, then realized it wasn't really a matter of  _managing_  at all. It was, in defiance of his every expectation, perhaps the best quiche he'd ever had.

* * *

_The Library_

Hermione sat back in her chair, trying very hard to keep her jaw from hanging open. She'd encountered many strange things in her comparatively short life, but this wasn't something she had any familiarity with. "So, what you're saying is… you’ve been working in the Department of Mysteries since the war ended, tracking down Death Eaters and other fringe groups still loyal to Voldemort—" he remained impassive, but there was a flicker in his eyes that betrayed his discomfort with her use of the name— "and when that operation went under, you were hired more permanently?"

He said nothing, perhaps understanding a bit better than she did that she was not asking questions, but thinking aloud. Instead, he remained still, poised effortlessly in the chair across from her, hands steepled gracefully on level with his chin.

"And on what was supposed to be a routine investigation, you were ambushed, and Malfoy was hit with some spell nobody knows, and now his magic's working improperly." He inclined his head, if only slightly, though she guessed his frustration with her repetition was probably festering beneath the veneer of quietude. "All right, I think I understand that, but why do you need me?" Hermione ran a hand through her already-frazzled hair (it tended to get more disheveled as her stress levels increased, and this was quite the stressful day), and fixed him with an inquisitive look.

Snape quirked an eyebrow, potentially at the birds' nest that her head was becoming, and she had the grace to flush slightly before looking down. It wasn't fair that he could still do that—make her feel so uncomfortable and foolish with nothing more than the barest of gestures.

"You are, I understand, an expert of some renown with ancient runes, are you not, Miss Granger?" She looked up sharply, but he continued. "The reason nobody knew the spell was not simply because we'd never heard it before, but because it was in a language that none of us recognized. Magic like that… to interfere with a wizard's connection to his own power… that's old magic. Very old, and the language in which it was spoken is probably more dead than our oft-mangled Latin."

"Do you remember the exact words?" She had seized onto the information with a sudden intensity, and he blinked slowly, once, and shook his head.

"No. The incantation was fast, and amidst a number of others. It was a battle scene, Miss Granger, not a classroom. But…" he paused, then uttered a string of syllables that didn't immediately register. It must have been part of the spell, and Hermione repeated it back to him, gaining his acquiescence to her rendering.

"Hm. With vowels like that, and that particular pitch on the—" she was thinking out loud again, and stopped abruptly. "I think… it sounds like old Norse." Her lips pursed together into a thin line. That was helpful, but only a little. The Norse were one of the most magical ancient peoples, but their magic was hypothesized to work in very different ways from the Classical traditions. Indeed, though it was possible to learn to read Norse runes, the spells themselves weren't just written down for use. It was something more than that, though nobody had yet been able to figure out what.

One scholar had guessed that all of it must have been wordless, perhaps even wandless, but according to what Snape had said, the man who cursed Draco had used both, so perhaps it wasn't that either. Worse, there was so much literature preserved in old Norse that it would take her months to go through it all, if the answer was even in the library. A glance at her former Potions professor confirmed that she need say none of this aloud; he had a fair idea of what was going on.

"Well… I suppose we'd best get started."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as at least one person has already noticed, this fic is cross-posted at ff.net. I'm reposting here and editing for typographical errors and word repetition and the like as I go, but if for some reason one chapter a day is inadequate, the full story so far can be found there. I'm also AnotherSpoonyBard on that site, so it shouldn't be difficult to locate. Progress is ongoing, but I suspect that the story will total about 20 chapters, and I might hit 100,000 words or so. Maybe.


	5. Chapter Four: The Meadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape has a sense of humor. Harry has an early wake-up call. Draco goes on a picnic.

_The Library of Alexandria, Librarian Granger's Office_

He watched her flick her wand this way and that, summoning books with only the occasional murmur. She'd written down the phonetic pronunciation of the hex fragment he'd given her, and was apparently attempting to cross-reference with an indexing spell. Occasionally, she would stoop over one of the books, running a finger along the page until she'd pause, read, and shake her head, returning the tome or scroll from whence it came.

After a few minutes of this, Snape grew bored and cleared his throat, which caused her to look up sharply, slightly startled. It would appear that she'd all but forgotten his presence. A part of him was immensely displeased with this development; he had not refined every movement and gesture to be so easily ignored. He banished the thought as a vanity unbecoming of one such as himself, but his eyes did narrow slightly, and his displeasure was obvious enough that she swallowed nervously. He found this viscerally satisfying, but there were more important things to do than draw it out.

"Miss Granger, while I realize that you are perhaps more use around books than other people, you are not the only one with research experience. I am not an expert in old Norse, but I am fully capable of casting an index spell." One brow rose just slightly, and she straightened, apparently deciding to ignore the insult for a moment.

"Oh. Um, yes, of course. The thing is… I'm not really sure what to check  _for_. I think you may have overheard half-words, and I'm not really sure which syllables go together…" It clearly pained her greatly to admit that there was something she did not know, and where he once would have seized the opportunity and pressed the point further, he now simply nodded. She was not a student who needed to be reminded that she had shortcomings, she was a professional who was attempting to help him, and he understood that.

"Does any one of the syllables commonly a form word on its own, or frequently appear in combination with something that might have been cut off? It seems unlikely that our assailants were any great scholars; they may have done research, but most people do not have access to resources like these." Actually, he'd have to procure a list of visitors to this section, just in case.

She thought about it for a moment, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. It was a habit she'd had since her days in school, though why he remembered such a trivial thing was beyond him. "You know, you might be onto something there."

He scoffed. "Do have a care not to praise me too much, Miss Granger; I fear I may be blushing," he deadpanned, and her head snapped back up, eyes wide in shock. He realized she'd probably never known he had a sense of humor of any kind and rolled his eyes. Granted, he'd gone to great lengths to seem as unapproachable as possible, but even he could appreciate gallows humor and dry sarcasm.

Severus was himself surprised, however, when she smiled in response. "Of course. I shall endeavor to say only cruel things of you from now on."

"Surely you do not mean to imply that this was not already the case?" She had no reply, but the silly grin didn't leave her face as she looked back down, apparently trying only somewhat successfully to stifle her mirth. Snape didn't really understand what was quite so funny, but found that her good mood bothered him rather less than he thought it would. Perhaps she was simply less insufferable when outside the company of Mister Potter and Mister Weasley.

"You really are right, though," she mused, drawn back into her work. "The problem is, even the words that might be there can have many different meanings. Ancient Runes is so inexact in cases like this… there is no Rosetta Stone for old Norse."

"Pity." He watched with more interest as she flipped a couple of pages in another book, suddenly intent. Severus waited with a fair bit more patience this time, understanding that she was trying to put something together. To interrupt might cause her to lose the thought before it was firmly cemented enough in her mind to recall later.

" _Rök_ ," she uttered suddenly, grabbing a quill and scribbling the corresponding runes down on a separate piece of parchment. "Most famously seen as the suffix of the word  _Ragnarök_ , which itself is commonly translated as 'twilight of the gods.' Here, though, I think it's just by itself." She sounded quite excited by this discovery; he pointedly inserted his question before she could get carried away.

"And this is one of those words which have multiple meanings?"

Her face fell slightly. "Unfortunately. Some of those meanings are almost opposite from each other, too. It can mean both 'development' and 'end' among other things. Some muggle scholars even translate it as 'renewal.' I'm pretty sure the last syllable you gave me is the first in a word for 'power' or 'magic,' but the rest is just incomprehensible fragments." She sank miserably into the wooden chair positioned in front of the table she was using as a desk.

Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. "Well, it's fair to say that the spell is doing something to Draco's magic, but the obscurity of the word does not lend us any assistance in repairing the damage." Despite this, he did not think them as poorly-off as she seemed to. It was a start, at any rate. "I would have thought your Gryffindor traits avowed you of more persistence than this, Miss Granger. It is a matter now of looking for references to power alteration in these texts. Start narrowly, then broaden the index terms if there isn't anything useful. Use synonyms, and do write down a list this time. The affair will proceed much more quickly if we both make the attempt."

Rising to the bait nicely, she glared, then shoved herself rather ungracefully out of the chair. Waving her wand and setting her quill to copying the list of words for him, she muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "I'll show  _you_  Gryffindor traits."

If Snape had been the kind of man who expressed emotion, he might have smirked.

* * *

_Diagon Alley_

Harry Potter, Chief Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had seen things that would make most people's insides squirm. While the average citizen had languished in fear, praying that the world's most diabolical wizard would not find them, rip from them everything they held dear, and leave them for dead, Harry had trudged through mud, covered in the salty slick of his own sweat and the metallic crimson of someone else's blood, confronting the darkest of that same man's deeds. He'd known anguish and agony and abject terror, as well as triumph and hope and validation.

But never, in all of his short but eventful life, had he seen anything quite like this.  
This morning, he was woken early by an urgent floo from his second-in-command, a veteran Auror named Violet Kingsbury, summoning him to the office, at once. His steely advisor was not known for exaggeration, and so he'd been there as soon as he'd managed to pull on some clothes. When he'd arrived without shoes, she'd handed him a pair in his size without her usual sardonic commentary on his preparedness and led him to his own office.

"There's been a murder, Potter."

This alone did not justify the early-morning summons, and Harry was still too tired to do much more than wait for her to elaborate. Once she'd closed the door on his office, activating the soundproofing spell (a modified  _Muffliato_ ), she'd whirled around, and he'd been able to catch sight of her expression for the first time. Her face, normally no-nonsense and rather stoic, was showing wear at the edges, and that was enough to clue him in to the severity of what she was about to tell him.

He nodded slowly, permission for her to continue, though he wasn't sure he was doing himself any favors by it.

She took a deep breath. "Last night, at approximately four in the morning, a muggle woman named Angela Snowsdale was reported missing by her friends. She'd been out with them all night, and all four were intoxicated to some degree, enough that they aren't sure exactly when they lost track of her. Her body was found in Diagon Alley this morning, outside Madame Malkin's." Harry's eyes widened; Diagon Alley was a very public location; nobody left a corpse there unless they wanted it to be found, and quickly. It was a risky location, and there was always a chance that the body dump would be seen, even at that hour.

"It doesn't look like she was murdered there," Kingsbury continued, answering his automatic first question with the ease of years' acquaintance. "But the rest of it… you really need to see it for yourself. Weasley and a couple of our best boys are working it right now, trying to contain the crowds and give the poor girl some privacy."  _And trying to keep the Prophet away._ This, too, was well understood between them. Overzealous journalists were just as likely to ruin an investigation as help it, and Harry's personal experiences with wizarding Britain's number one news source left much to be desired anyway.

The two had then apparated to a location a few blocks from the tailor's, and walked the intervening minute in silence. Now, Harry was staring down at the naked body of a muggle woman in a wizarding location, the signs of torture written across her skin for the world to see. A tent had been erected over the scene for privacy, but that didn't stop the occasional flashbulb from going off in the general area. Some of the more intrepid photographers had almost managed to creep inside the tent, but a few rookies were doing well enough keeping them back.

"Harry, mate, you have to see this." For a moment, Harry didn't acknowledge Ron, absorbed in his study of the corpse. She couldn't have been much older than he was, or at least it didn't seem so. She was face-down and spread-eagled, blond hair obscuring most of her face and part of her back. It didn't cover enough to make the lacerations invisible. They were sketched over her back in angry red lines, as though the whole thing were the canvas of a demented artist, macabre and terrible. He looked for any pattern, any sense to it, but if any existed, it was inscrutable to him.

A hand on his shoulder snapped Harry out of his reverie, and he jumped, just stopping himself short of drawing his wand. It was only Ron. "Oy, Harry. I'm serious; I think I found something," Ron's face was solemn, and he led his best friend outside the tent and around to the storefront itself. "I was scanning for hidden spells, you know, just the normal magical residue trace and all that, but I found this." He pointed, ignoring the several journalists that had also followed, and Harry squinted.

"I don't—" It hit him then, and Harry cast a nonverbal  _Finite Incantatem_  on the spot Ron was pointing at. The youngest Weasley brother himself had obviously cast a disillusionment charm, to hide whatever was on the wall while he went to retrieve his friend.

As Ron's spell dissipated, Harry frowned. The image, perfectly carved into the stonework on the front of Madame Malkin's, was not one he was familiar with. About three feet in diameter, a serpent curled around in a perfect circle, biting its own tail. The image moved, so that it appeared that it was constantly eating itself only to regenerate in the next moment.

"Any idea what that is?" Ron sounded unsure, but Harry could do nothing to help him.

"Haven't the foggiest, but he obviously wanted us to see it."  _He_  being the understood subject of the investigation—the murderer.

"You know," Ron amended, taking a closer look, "I have this feeling that I know someone who could help."

* * *

_Malfoy Manor_

His day had started off entirely too poorly, and though he had to admit breakfast wasn't bad at all, he didn't much like the look of where things were going now. His father's impassive expression hadn't changed one iota all morning, and he soon departed the breakfast table for his study, but his mother was looking at him like she knew something he did not, and whatever that something was amused her immensely. It was in one sense a welcome change from the constant worry she'd displayed upon having his condition explained to her, and indeed some of the tightness had receded from around her eyes and mouth, but he'd learned in his youth to associate that look with things he wasn't going to enjoy.

When he heard the muffled sound of Lovegood's footsteps and turned to see her holding a large wicker basket, he was at once both confused and apprehensive, mostly because she looked so bloody delighted. Given the vast differences between the trite sort of things that were likely to make her happy and his own preferences regarding how to spend his days, he had a feeling the rest of this one would be just as botched as the morning had been.

"Are you ready?" she asked, as though this were the sort of thing that happened every day.

"Ready for  _what_ , Lovegood?" he fired back, enunciating for emphasis. He was still in the dark, and in this particular usage, it was not a place he enjoyed dwelling for any longer than strictly necessary. His mother shot him a subtly-reproachful look, doubtless horrified with his manners. He'd been taught how to be polite to just about anybody, but it wasn't a skill he used all that often.

She was as unperturbed as ever by his tone, and instead she looked past him and smiled at his mother. Had she caught the silent exchange? No, of course not; the woman was bloody oblivious to social cues. "We'll be back sometime this afternoon, Lady Malfoy."

Draco had to consciously remember to keep his jaw in place when his mother actually smiled. Granted, she was more likely to do so than either Lucius or himself, but usually it was for decorum only. This, Draco knew to be more genuine than that, and it again occurred to him that something must have happened between Lovegood and his parents. He was going to find out what that was, but he'd have to be indirect about it. His entire family tree was packed with Slytherins; the straightforward way of doing things rarely ever yielded the best results.

"Of course, dear. Enjoy yourselves, and Draco—" she shot him a look— "remember that Miss Lovegood is your physician and act accordingly." The irritated Draco could only school his features into perfect impassivity and nod noncommittally. That would depend entirely on where this whole thing was going, and now that he was quite certain he was the only one who didn't know, he wasn't feeling particularly charitable about it.

The walk to the edge of the Manor grounds was silent. This was mostly due to the fact that Draco was sulking about being drawn off to some unknown location against his will, but Lovegood did not seem to be bothered by his sullen demeanor, and he was seriously beginning to doubt that anything he ever did  _would_  bother her. He'd been outright venomous, ignored her for large stretches of time, subtly insulted her, and not warned her about the rather nasty wards to stop people from entering his room. None of it seemed to work, and that included the wards.

The pressure of fingertips on his elbow drew him from his thoughts, and he glanced over at Lovegood, who was smiling at him warmly, still holding that ridiculous basket in one hand. "How are you going to disapparate us without your wand?" he asked caustically, but for some reason (he'd nearly given up trying to figure these things out), the smile grew wider. Apparation could technically be done wandlessly, but it was already a fairly risky spell, and with side-along too… not even he would do something like that unless he had to.

"You're quite right, of course. Thank you very much." She held out the basket, and he realized she had interpreted his statement as an offer of assistance. There was a brief moment where Draco warred with the idea of obstinately refusing to take the thing, but at this point it was fairly clear he was going to lose this particular battle. The will of Narcissa Malfoy was heavy artillery in situations like this, and somehow Lovegood had managed to convince his mother that this scheme, whatever it was, constituted a benefit to his health.

Grumbling under his breath, he took the basket by the handles, refraining from flinching when she took his arm for the side-along. It was a curious thing, actually. Draco had never been a particularly tactile person, a tendency inherited from his high-society parents. In school, nobody had laid a hand on him unless he'd explicitly invited it. During the war… well, touch had become associated with pain, mostly from the Dark Lord and Bellatrix. Lovegood, on the other hand, didn't seem to understand the concept of personal space. He would sometimes wrench away from her without intending to, when contact came by surprise. Even eight years later, he still instinctively reacted to what he expected to be some new form of cruelty, for when watching him writhe under the  _Cruciatus_  had become boring.

The sensation of being squeezed made itself known to him, and Draco closed his eyes. Though he was long used to it, side-along was always a bit more nauseating then apparating oneself.

* * *

_The Meadow, somewhere in Moldova_

They reappeared in what seemed to be a forest clearing of some kind. A rough circle of about twenty feet in radius was bordered on all sides by trees, a fair mix of deciduous and coniferous arbors layering the space with laden boughs. It was still full summer, and the leaves would not begin to turn for several months. Assuming they were still in the temperate part of the northern hemisphere, that was.

"Where are we?" He would have preferred that the first words out of his mouth sound a little more irritated, but he was too interested in their surroundings to consciously invest that much effort in his tone. The clearing was covered in a carpet of lush grass and lichens, dotted here and there with wildflowers that smelled at once enticing and vaguely familiar somehow. The sun poured into the space at an angle, illuminating the motes of pollen and earth-dust that floated lazily in the air. The entire place was breathtakingly still, almost as if frozen in time, but there was every once in a while a sound like the chiming of bells.

Lovegood had made herself busy while he was looking around, and was presently removing a rather tacky-looking red-and-white checkered blanket from the basket. Draco's brows furrowed when she spread it across the ground, picking a spot underneath a particularly golden ray of sunshine, if that made any sense. He wasn't sure if light had varying degrees of aureate-ness, but that was the only way he could describe it.

A series of bell-sounds chimed a light little melody, and she waited for the tune to finish before she replied. "We're in Moldova," she replied, as though this was a frequent occurrence for her. While he processed this information (who ever visited  _Moldova_?), she reached back into the basket and withdrew several items, which with a few flicks of her wand proved to be food: bread, cheese, fresh fruit and water, from the look of it. "I hope you didn't eat too much quiche this morning," she added idly, glancing towards the treeline.

He followed her gaze, catching a flash of silver-white before it vanished. Not sure what he had just seen, Draco stood a tad awkwardly while she settled herself atop the blanket. Lovegood looked up at him then, and there was a particularly-infuriating gentle amusement in them. "Have you never been on a picnic before, Draco?"

"Of course not, Lovegood. Do you honestly think the Malfoys would be caught dead tramping around in the wilderness like fools?" Again, his words had no visible effect on her save a slight softening of her eyes, and it struck him that he could almost respect that. At first, he rebelled against the thought, but then he examined it more closely. From the perspective of the consummate Slytherin, someone who had spent most of his life learning the deft and subtle art of manipulation, it was natural to prod at his enemies until he discovered their weaknesses. This information was typically then filed away for later use. Potter, Weasley, and Granger had made it too easy, and hardly anyone even in his own House had ever provided much of a challenge. Zabini had been the most unreadable, but he'd eventually figured the Italian wizard out as well.

Lovegood, though… she showed no weakness, no exploitable tendencies that would make her manipulable, and really, if he were honest with himself, that was somewhat impressive. He wanted to think it was just a fluke, that her reactions were just so abnormal it was hard to pin down what counted as  _hurt_  or  _offended_ , but the more often his barbs met the same reception, the more he was led to the conclusion that she was either entirely unaffected by the kind of pain words could inflict or so good at hiding her reactions that Salazar himself would have been fooled.

Draco was going to find out which it was. The mystery beckoned to his nature, on an almost instinctive level, and figuring out what made Lovegood tick under all those layers of loony and saccharine was probably going to require indulging her ridiculous tendencies to an extent. Therefore, when she patted the blanket beside her, he acquiesced without further argument, sitting so that he was facing her and at the second place she'd set out.

Observing wasn't helping him much, so he figured he might as well try something a little more direct. "Why did you bring me here, Lovegood? You had to know I don't regularly go traipsing about in the woods." Well, that wasn't entirely true, but he definitely did not do it for leisure.

She stared at him for a long moment, and though he maintained his scowl, he did start to shift uncomfortably. It wasn't the first time this had happened, but for some reason it unnerved him. It was almost like she was actually  _seeing_  him, in a sense beyond the physical act of vision. This was, of course, ridiculous, and Draco didn't know what had allowed such a useless thought to cross his mind. Perhaps her brand of insanity was rubbing off on him; he'd have to be careful to spend as much time away from her as possible to maintain his own mentality.

She frowned slightly as he thought this, and he could have sworn he heard her sigh. "Fresh air is good for you, Draco." He had the sense that there was something she wasn't saying, but he didn't like his chances of figuring it out if she didn't want him to.

Which brought him back to his present predicament. The fear that her influence would have negative effects on his sanity wasn't logical, he knew that. Really, it was simply the fact that being around her made him uncomfortable for several reasons, not least of which was the fact that he felt he wasn't fooling her like he fooled everyone else in his life except Severus. What was more, he was still curious to know exactly how she'd managed to develop such an immunity to his insults. As he'd realized, he'd probably only figure it out if he asked, so…

"How did you get into mediwizardry anyway, Lovegood? I thought you'd want to take over the bloody rag your father publishes or go hunting for things that don't exist or something." He picked up a sliver of cheese on bread and chewed it over while he gauged her reaction.

She tilted her head to one side, examining him or her own thoughts, he couldn't really be sure. Shrugging delicately, she spread marmalade over a slice of bread while she spoke. It was a surprisingly nuanced act, and he never would have thought to apply the term 'graceful' to such a series of moments, but Lovegood somehow made it so. He watched her hands even while he listened, trying to figure out what had spurred the thought.

"I saw many injuries during the war… and sustained many. It seemed a useful sort of thing, to know how to remedy that." There was something in her tone, a note of restraint, as though she were not saying something that she wanted to, and Draco latched onto it immediately, pressing the point.

"What, that's it? None of that healers' drivel about helping others or saving lives or whatever it is you're supposed to be concerned about?" It wasn't that he truly thought it was idiotic to want to help people, it was simply that 'people' had, in his experience, never meant  _his_  kind of people, and he tended to view the false generalization with scorn.

"I'm helping  _you_ , aren't I?" Her answer was so appropriate to his internal musings that Draco was temporarily struck dumb, unsure how to respond. Lovegood popped a grape into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, cocking her head further sideways and looking at him with something like mischief playing in her eyes. The Slytherin in Draco recognized the look immediately, though it lacked the menace with which he usually associated it. All the same, it was no less inscrutable, at least until she smiled, swallowing with an air of finality that meant that she was finally reaching her point.

"We're here to try something new," she pronounced, the underlying solemnity of the situation doing nothing to blunt the odd kind of cheer that infused the statement.

Frankly, he was a bit sick of tests, but if this one was going to be as novel as she said, he was willing to attempt it. Though he never made it obvious, he was becoming desperate to regain his magic. His wards needed to be readjusted for the obvious breach in defense that continued to let her through, and he wanted to go back to work. More than that, though, without it, he felt as though a core part of himself were missing, torn violently from his soul. It was a sentimental thing to think, and so he'd never describe it so aloud, but all the same it was how he felt.

"Close your eyes." Draco shot her a skeptical look, but she was the physician here, and so he complied. He was tempted to open them again when he heard her move and felt her settle beside him, but refrained.

"You know, Lovegood, if you wanted to get cozy, you should have brought someone else out here. Longbottom maybe?" He couldn't resist the jab; it was simply habit.

"That was rather uncharitable of you, Draco," she replied evenly, and this time, he really did crack an eyelid. She was as serene as ever, and indeed seemed faintly amused by him. He felt a flash of irritation, aware that the pass had struck empty air instead of hitting home as he'd intended. Another miss, then, though one more potential weak spot eliminated from the list. "Please close your eyes, and this time, relax. I've found it helps to think of something peaceful, at first."

 _Peaceful_? Draco's life had never been peaceful. Even in his childhood, the things he remembered most were instances of struggle, striving to be what he was expected to be. It had only grown worse with time, culminating in his time as an ill-trained soldier of the Dark. The pain of those days was nearly indescribable, and not just in the moments spent under the  _Cruciatus_. The association immediately took his mind down those pathways, and unbeknownst to him, his brows furrowed, a small indication of a much greater torment, one he chose to deal with as little as possible.

He was brought back to ordinary physical awareness by the contact of Lovegood's thin shoulder on his bicep. "Try visualizing this field in your mind, instead," she offered, though she continued to lean ever-so-slightly against him. "Feel the magic in it." He scoffed beneath his breath, but did not fool himself into believing that she was unaware of it. "Breathe deeply, Draco, and just trust me."

 _Trust_. Despite his efforts to smooth his face and relax as she was instructing him, he felt his mouth drop into a frown. There was no way he could trust Lovegood. The simple fact of the matter was that people always had ulterior motives for what they did, and trust got you killed. Just because he couldn't figure out what her angle was didn't mean she had none. In fact, it only made her more dangerous.

But now he was contradicting himself. She was either barmy, naive Luna Lovegood who believed in silly childish things like the power of friendship and heroic gestures and whatever the hell a Crumple-Horned Snorkack was or she was someone subtle, much more aware, and nearly inscrutable, therefore dangerous, and with some ulterior motive for helping him. She couldn't be both.

Beside him, she sighed, and he felt her shift, scooting until she was seated directly in front of him, her knees touching his. He felt her fingertips on his temples a second later, and it took a great deal of his self-control to avoid flinching away. "Just breathe, Draco. Match mine." Despite his misgivings, he listened, catching the steady, even rise and fall of her breaths, and after a few repetitions, he breathed with her. "Good, just like that." Her tone was soothing, and despite himself, he relaxed, some of the tension easing out of his muscles.

He tried visualizing the clearing again, and this time the image came to his mind much easier. "Focus on it for a moment. Listen closely, and then reach out with your mind, Like Legilimency."

Draco was still skeptical, and like as not, his efforts at the  _Legilimens_  spell would plummet him into her mind rather than anything else, especially since they were in such close proximity, but he said nothing of it. If she wanted to take that risk, it was her problem. Not to mention that the magic was as likely to backfire as anything else he had tried lately, but she seemed confident enough in what she was saying.

So Draco reached inside himself, to that place that held the wellspring of magic that every wizard was gifted with, and immersed himself in it, willing the spell into action without word or wand.

The result was instantaneous, and unlike anything he'd expected. He wasn't sure how to describe it, but it was as though those threads of magic that belonged to him were pulled out, woven into the area surrounding them like some kind of tapestry. Somehow, even without seeing it, he  _felt_  Lovegood smile as surely as he felt her hands leave his temples. "Open your eyes, Draco." He complied wordlessly, and choked back a gasp.

His metaphor couldn't have been more accurate. The first thing he noticed was that everything in the clearing seemed to glow softly. As he blinked, the images resolved themselves, and indeed it appeared as though shining threads of faint green were running though the individual blades of grass, and soft white ones held the flowers together. Amber-colored ropes infused the cores of the trees, but none of it was anything compared to what Lovegood was exuding.

Her skin shimmered with something vaguely opalescent, but beneath that, grey-violet strands of twisting, interwoven complexity threaded through her. Some, he noticed, spilled outward, anchoring her to the grass beneath, and some floated freely about her, creating some kind of hazy halo effect. She beamed at him, and wordlessly took hold of his arm, guiding it up into his line of sight.

Draco, too, was glowing, strands of dark green beneath a general amber surface. His own network was more jumbled-looking than hers, and he didn't quite understand why. He was also less connected to his surroundings, though he did note with surprise that where they were in contact, the amethyst wove together with the emerald as though they were part of the same thing. He finally mustered the question that plagued him. "Wh—what  _is_  this?"

"It's magic, of course," she answered in her usual dreamy way, but somehow, no other tone would have been quite so appropriate for the words. "It's life."

Perhaps he would have had something to say to that, if he weren't seeing it for himself. Instead, he was simply confused. He was no scholar, but he'd never even heard of any kind of magic resembling this before. It was so raw; something about it was almost visceral. "It's Old Magic," Lovegood elaborated. "Some people call it Wild Magic, too, and I suppose that's just as accurate." She shrugged, then stood, flowing to her feet in that odd way she had, tugging gently on his arm to urge him to do the same. "It's only in modern systems that people have come to regard magic as something that wizards have or do," she pointed out serenely. "Most Old Magics see it a bit differently. Magic isn't what we  _have_ , it's what we  _are_. Watch."

Taking a deep breath, Lovegood let her eyelids flutter shut, and Draco observed the violet in her flare to greater brightness for a moment, before settling back to what it usually was. Nothing else appeared to happen, but she put a finger to her lips and squeezed his hand briefly before letting go. Funny, he hadn't realized she was still holding it.

She gestured to the treeline, and Draco waited as patiently as he could to see what was going to happen. For a few moments, there was nothing, and he was beginning to wonder if the whole thing was some kind of elaborate trick or a stunt of Legilimency, but just as he was opening his mouth to demand an explanation, two figures in motion caught his eye.

To his new sight, they were a pure sort of white-silver, but in ordinary terms, he found himself looking at nothing short of a pair of unicorns, advancing slowly but steadily towards them. Lovegood smiled widely and stepped forward to meet them, running her hand along the left one's nose affectionately. "Draco, this is Lanilae, and this is Briar. They're the reason I brought you here."

 _Greetings, Bound One._  At the ringing voice in his head, Draco started, taking a step backwards and throwing up all of the Occlumency defenses he could think of.

 _Well enough against intruders, young wizard, but I am not of the same make as they_. The "voice" carried a faint hint of femininity and more than a trace of amusement, which seemed to be echoed in Lovegood's expression when he glanced over at her.

"Occlumency only works on human minds, Draco. Lanilae means you no harm. In fact, she knows a great deal about both Old Magic and sickness."  _I was hoping you could help him_. Though the thought was obviously intended for the unicorn, it echoed in Draco's consciousness as well, with Lovegood's normal tone.

The unicorn on the right, presumably Lanilae, cocked her head to one side and whuffed, a most horselike sound that seemed odd coming from an obviously-telepathic creature.  _He has no disease that I have ever seen. His magic is… twisted about itself, warped. That is not something I can fix_.

Draco was still too busy dealing with the fact that not only was he seeing what was apparently magic in a way he'd never heard of, but he was being spoken to by a unicorn of all things, and therefore he was in no position to offer any kind of comment to the revelation that his magic was twisted. He didn't even know it could be, and frankly this was swiftly crossing over into I-must-be-dreaming territory. Apparently, his disbelief and inability to process showed, because when Lovegood next looked over at him, she smiled sadly.  _I see. Well, thank you anyway. It was good to see you both, but I think he should probably go home now_.

This time, it was the leftward unicorn who bobbed his head up and down as though nodding.  _Of course. Take care of him_. The proclamation was more solemn than Draco rightly thought it should have been. Why would two unicorns care a whit about his health? None of this made sense, and he was going to have to think it through at another point… assuming he didn't just wake up to find that this was the strangest fever-dream he'd ever had, anyway. The unicorn on the left—Briar, he supposed—turned his head sideways, looking at Draco with one large, inscrutable eye.

 _You'd think one with so much magic would have a little more belief in it_ , he said simply, but then he turned away, both he and the female crowding Lovegood in a most horselike way, relenting only when she hugged their necks and whispered something he couldn't hear to them, looking as though she'd lost something important. They turned, then, and departed the clearing. The girl wasted no time packing up the remains of lunch, taking up the basket and turning to him.

"I understand that it's a lot to think about, Draco. I just thought they might know something I didn't." She sounded somewhat crestfallen, and he felt a small twinge of sympathy before quashing it ruthlessly. Not really trusting himself to speak, he simply grunted his dissatisfaction, something his mother would have no doubt been appalled by. She smiled sadly, then took his hand and disapparated the both of them.

* * *

_Diagon Alley_

Two cloaked wizards appeared outside of Diagon Alley, and one tapped the brick to let them inside. The scene was the pandemonium they'd been told to expect, and the one on the left sucked in a breath. "Bloody hell, they said it was bad, but…" he shook his head, dropping his hood and scratching absently at the scars on his face before turning to his apprentice.

Also relinquishing his cowl, the younger man mirrored the disbelieving head-shake almost imperceptibly, expression inscrutable as usual. "Indeed." Sliding his wand from his sleeve, the wizard kept it in one hand as he strode through the crowd, which seemed to part like water before them. Perhaps it was the fact that the younger was so stonefaced and solemn, but nobody seemed inclined to stop and ask them questions.

Once they reached the crime scene tent, the first spotted the source of their summons and waved. "Harry! Over here!" The young man with dark hair turned and returned the gesture, jogging over to them with a troubled look on his face.

"Hey Bill, Blaise. Thanks for getting here so quickly." He nodded to both men, who echoed the businesslike greeting in kind. It appeared there was little time for the exchange of pleasantries, but then that had been expected. One did not recall curse-breakers and cryptologists from a research trip to Egypt without good reason. Bill Weasley still wasn't exactly sure why Harry and Ron needed a couple of experts in ancient symbols and curse-traps to consult on a murder, but he had a feeling it wasn't good.

Without further ado, the two consultants were split up; Harry took Zabini to examine the body for anything suspicious, and Ron led his brother around to the side of the building. Upon seeing what had perplexed his friends, Bill whistled low and nodded to himself. "Okay, I think I understand what you were getting at now. This is an Ouroboros."

_I just wish I knew what it meant here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H/t Tamora Pierce for the name and some of the visual details of Wild Magic. The rest of my use of it is very different from hers, but credit where credit's due.


	6. Chapter Five: Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets coffee. Severus and Hermione get lunch. Draco gets bad news.

_British Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Offices_

Harry shook himself, pushing his glasses up his nose with the air of one long past normal fatigue. Indeed, the purplish bruising beneath his eyes indicated that he'd moved beyond 'tired' quite some time ago, and 'buggered' was but a distant memory, fond in the way that lesser agony always becomes with a proper intervention of time. He rubbed at his forehead, unconsciously trying to soothe away the burgeoning migraine, and attempted to make the letters on the page stop swimming around by squinting at them hard enough.  
It didn't work.

With a sigh, the man-who-had-much-to-do stood, placing his lags carefully so as not to stumble, and made his way to the break room for some coffee. Per his request, there was an actual coffee machine here, because the conjured stuff just tasted funny to him. Maybe it was some residual hint of his muggle upbringing (not that the Dursleys had bothered to serve him coffee, mind), but he just liked his liquid energy better when he made it himself. Apparently, the Ministry had gone overboard with the request and placed one in every break room in the place. He suspected Arthur Weasley might have used Harry's "endorsement" of the devices to expose more wizards to muggle technology, but he really didn't mind. At least his fame was being used for something positive. Small, maybe, but definitely positive.

Of course, the pro-muggle statement of using this particular coffee pot was somewhat ruined when he dumped a vial of pepper-up potion into his cup, but at present, it was necessary. The stoppered glass tube was one of a small store of useful potions he had in his private office. Last year, in addition to sending him several charms against various fantastical creatures, Luna Lovegood had made him an Auror's collection of brews for Christmas, and he had to admit, thy were much better than what he could make himself, or what he'd get at the local apothecary. It was just like her to mix the whimsical with the helpful, and he found himself smiling as he downed the now vaguely peppermint-flavored brew.

Shuffling back to his office, Harry had another go at reading the reports stacked up on his desk and sighed. A week since the first murder, and already there'd been another. Young muggle female, pretty, blonde, out with friends when she suddenly disappeared. This time, one of the friends swore she'd seen a young man with her friend shortly before the disappearance. The description was vague; all she'd been able to say was that he was tall and well-dressed. It could be nothing, or it could be their killer. The problem was discovering which.

At this rate, Harry was fairly sure he was going to have to put Bill Weasley and Blaise Zabini on contract with the Auror Office for a while. The Ouroboros had shown up again, this time in Knockturn, where the second body had been dumped. The girl showed the same signs of torture, and just like Blaise had told him last time, there were faint traces of Dark magic about the area. According to Zabini, the wounds were most likely the product of ancient torture hexes, invented and banned long before anyone thought up the  _Cruciatus_. Whatever was really going on, those two were spending far too much time and energy on this to justify it as a personal favor to him.

Finally having something he could concretely  _do_ , Harry summoned a Departmental Special Requests form, subtype six, for non-Ministry personnel retainers, temporary. There was a bureaucracy joke in there somewhere, but he was too tired to formulate it properly, even to himself, and filled in all the spaces by hand before he remembered he had a dictation quill for this sort of thing. That had been a birthday present from Ron, who was always looking for new ways to do less work.  _Lazy git,_ Harry thought, but the barb was purely affectionate. Ron was not always the most calm under pressure, or the brightest bulb in the socket even, but he was excellent at his job and surprisingly good with people, especially the ones intimidated by Harry's fame.

Sending the form off to the Wizard Resources department, Harry turned back to his reports. Dark magic, certainly, being used on muggles. His first thought was that they had some Voldemort-supporting holdout on their hands, but that didn't explain the Ouroboros or the age of the curses being used. Though… it was a  _snake_  eating its own tail, which did smack of something along that line. Sometimes, Harry wished that he'd spent some of his school years getting to know the Slytherins instead of assuming they were all horrid, because he hated the way he automatically assumed anything associated with Dark magic and/or serpents had something to do with them. It was an old instinct, and to be fair, he'd rarely been wrong about it back then, but… when he  _had_  been wrong, it had been in the most extreme of ways.

Putting that from his mind for the moment, he decided that the most likely cause of this was some single killer trying to stir up old hatreds that the rest of the world was trying to put to rest. Magical versus muggle, dark magic versus light, even possibly old House prejudices. At the very least, he was likely invoking either Salazar Slytherin or Lord Voldemort on purpose.

Or was he? Maybe the snake meant something else. He needed to have another conversation with Bill about this. He knew what the Ouroboros basically symbolized, something about the circularity of life and renewal or something of that sort, but he had to admit he hadn't really followed most of the discussion snapping back and forth between the eldest Weasley brother and Zabini after that. It was all a bit theoretical for Harry, who preferred the solidity of action over anything too cerebral.

Making a face, he buried himself back in his pile of documents and paperwork, more determined than ever to close the case.

* * *

_The Library of Alexandria, Ancient Texts Section, Librarian Granger's Office_

The sound of quills scratching against parchment, coupled with the occasional muffled  _thud_  as a book was opened or closed, was all that permeated the stillness of her workspace, and were it anyone else but  _him_ , Hermione might have been able to forget that this was not an ordinary day, that she was not simply alone with her books and her research, gathering data for her newest scholarly contribution to wizarding society.

Perhaps unfortunately (she was still trying to decide even a week later), it  _wasn't_  anybody else sharing her suddenly too-small office with her. It was Severus Snape, former Potions Professor, Unspeakable, towering intellect, and quite possibly someone who had, somewhere along the line, managed to save them all.

Surprisingly, his presence did not discomfit her in the way she had suspected it would. Rather, it felt almost natural, that when she voiced her thoughts aloud to herself, someone was there to answer, to give the musing due consideration and run it through a hazardous gauntlet of knowledge gained over years of experience and study, test it on the edge of a knife-sharp wit, and return it to her. Sometimes, the ideas came back mangled and sliced to pieces, but other times, they were just… trimmed. More concise and rigorous. Even more interesting were those times when he would confess his lack of the specific knowledge that she had, and attempt to run something by her. She was convinced that she could not analyze in the same way he had, but she gave it her best effort all the same, and he did not often seem dissatisfied by the results.

All the same, they had made precious little progress, and it was starting to wear on both of them, making their exchanges less frequent and more strained. His evaluations of her thoughts were a little more brutal than strictly necessary, her answers more clipped than she felt they should be. After a particularly-heated exchange on the nature of world-cycles and symbolism, Hermione had realized that she simply couldn't concentrate anymore, and her hollowly-aching stomach gave her a fairly good idea of why. It was nearly two hours after noon, she realized with trepidation, and frankly the idea of the leftovers she had brought from her small flat was not at all appealing.

Snape hadn't eaten either, she knew. Mulling it over for a few minutes, she reached a resolution and spoke, her tones carrying a hint of apology. "Professor?" he glanced upwards, locking eyes with her, and she swallowed, realizing a tad belatedly that this might be a tad too forward of her. "I can't speak for you, but I'm not accomplishing much. I'm going to take a break for lunch." A small pause; his left eyebrow ascended his forehead when she didn't move. "Well, I just thought you might like to come. Removing myself from this environment has always helped when I'm dealing with a particularly taxing research question."

She shifted in place uncomfortably as several moments passed, during which his gaze did not move. After what seemed an eternity, he nodded briefly and stood, rising gracefully despite the number of hours they'd spent in the same place. Hermione herself felt more than a little stiff, but tried not to betray that fact, walking with as much dignity as she could muster. She'd learned to do this a long time ago, to wrap her pride and courage around herself like a cloak or shroud, hiding the scared or anxious or even angry woman beneath.

Right now, she was doing this because she was nervous. As they walked to the front of the library, she wondered why that might be. There were a few options, of course, but all of them revolved around the man keeping a moderate pace slightly behind her. The first was that she feared someone discovering his identity should they go out in public. This potential cause was immediately discarded. His face was not well-known; if he thought he was in danger of being recognized, a glamour charm would suffice.

Another possibility was that he still produced this effect, this nervousness, in her by his simple presence. She supposed that was true, though the balance of her anxiety was different than she remembered. It was funny, that of all the things she'd seen and done, Hermione's biggest secret had always been a strange attraction to the Potions Professor. It had never been anything particularly earth-shattering, just an admiration for his mind and something of an unhealthy fascination with the sound of his voice. It had been easy to overlook, when she knew him to be a cruel and insufferable git, and the majority of her concern with him had always been in avoidance, lest he dock her precious House points, or, later in her years, put a more dangerous stop to whatever she, Harry, and Ron were planning.

With those possibilities safely eliminated, it was a bit… stranger. She couldn't help but notice small things she never paid much attention to before, like the way he moved. Harry had once compared it to a swooping bat, but Hermione no longer believed that was accurate. There was something so uncannily  _precise_  about his every motion, a kind of gracefulness in efficiency. Hermione could move with an economy of effort; she had been dead-dog tired often enough to know that. But she was fairly certain that she never looked quite that good doing it.

And that  _was_  part of the problem, wasn't it? Professor Snape looked better than she remembered him. The facial scar was new, and she was undeniably curious as to how he obtained it, though she knew better than to ask. His hair, though a bit grey at the temples, bore the signs of regular washing, and he had a bit more color to him than he had living in the dungeons. She'd grasped his hand to take the Unbreakable Vow, and she knew from that little contact that he was more muscular than she expected, and his robes were tailored to fit a tad better than they had.

_Bollocks_.

Hermione was a mature, worldly woman. She could willingly admit to herself that she was attracted to him. He was approximately twenty years her senior, but then that wasn't so unusual. Wizards lived a fair span longer than muggles on average, and it was not such a rare thing that young women of her intellectual leanings were drawn to men who could match them, and such men were rarely ever the ones in their mid-twenties. No, this alone was nothing problematic.

The problem, as she saw it, was twofold: first, he wasn't just  _any_  reasonably-attractive forty-something male with a mind even she could envy. He was Professor  _Snape_. Well, she supposed he wasn't technically a professor anymore, but that was beside the point. Secondly, neither of her two usual methods of dealing with such attraction would work. One of these methods was, of course, to get to know the person, and perhaps pursue something. That was out of the question. The other was avoidance, which was going to be terribly difficult, given the situation they found themselves in.

_Well, I'll just have to deal with it. I'm not a hormonal teenager anymore, I'm a twenty-five-year-old woman who is perfectly capable of professionalism._  Resolved, she put the issue from her mind just as they reached the restaurant. It was a small streetside affair, but then she was pretty sure Snape wasn't expecting five-star cuisine on what amounted to a short lunch break. She realized with a hint of guilt that she'd been too absorbed in her problem-solving to talk to him at all on the way over, but then he hadn't said anything either, so it was probably fine.

"Have you ever eaten shawarma?" she asked conversationally as she stepped up to the vendor and ordered in Arabic.

"I am unfamiliar," he replied, and she nodded, ordering for him as well. He didn't seem to mind, as there was a conspicuous absence of glares or snarky comments, so she went ahead and paid for him as well. This earned her a frown, but she just smiled a little too widely and handed him his food.

"This way, if you don't like it, you haven't wasted anything," she pointed out pragmatically, and though he did not seem quite satisfied, her logic was sound, and he followed her to the seating area. She opened her wrapped bundle without hesitation, remembering with some amusement that shawarma was eaten without utensils. If there was one thing she couldn't much imagine, it was Severus Snape trying to eat with his hands.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, East Wing, Guest Bedroom_

Luna woke shaking, her breath coming in short, softly-ragged pants, and completely drenched in a cold sweat. She had not anticipated that this extended stay in Malfoy Manor would bring the memories of her captivity back with so much clarity, but she had been unpleasantly reminded of her last, harrowing experience in this place with uncomfortable regularity. If she were so inclined, she probably would have taken a Dreamless Sleep potion, but those tended to cause dependence, and she was here for the foreseeable future, so she'd simply have to put up with the nightmares.

Lucius and Narcissa seemed to be aware of or at least suspected her troubles adjusting, because the first day she'd been here, Narcissa had taken her aside and asked if it was going to be a problem, or if she would prefer that herself and Draco be moved to one of the Malfoy holiday homes across Europe. It had been a surprising gesture, but Luna had refused, pointing out that a familiar environment was likely to be better for Draco as he dealt with his illness. The tense lines in the Lady Malfoy's posture had slackened perceptibly at this, though Luna doubted she had noticed the tell. One thing that she had determined to be true of Narcissa very soon after meeting her was that, while a worthy Slytherin with all the craftiness and cunning this entailed, the woman cared for her family so much that it almost pained Luna to see it. This, she knew, was something similar to what her own mother would have been like, were she still alive. The other details of personality were entirely different, but that devotion…

It seemed her consideration in prioritizing the comfort of Draco and his family over her own had done some small favor in gaining her the elder Malfoys' support in matters of Draco's treatment, but it wasn't until her first tea with Master Malfoy that she'd truly found their demeanors easing around her. The topic had admittedly been rather heavy: she'd inquired politely about how they spent their days now, and of course it was impossible not to acknowledge that the war had changed things, that forgiveness was at best slow and forgetting completely impossible. They did not seem to believe it ought to be otherwise, or to think that any exception should be made for them, but there was no denying that they were in some ways struggling with the ostracization that had followed everything seven years ago.

Perhaps all of this was why, when she passed Narcissa in the hallway this morning, clean of the residue of her terrors but not perhaps as bright in demeanor as might be otherwise expected, the older woman stopped. Out of courtesy, Luna did the same. "Is there something that you need, Lady Malfoy?"

Though her expression remained impassive much better than her son's tended to, Narcissa's eyes softened minutely. "Is your sleep troubled, Miss Lovegood?"

Luna swallowed. "It is so obvious?" She would truly prefer that Draco did not notice; he had enough of his own problems to deal with, but he was intelligent and observant, and if the signs of her fatigue were obvious enough to warrant Narcissa stopping her in the hallway, he would certainly recognize them as well.

Fortunately, Narcissa was as skilled in the arts of nonverbal communication and people-reading as she, and none of this needed to be said aloud. "I know a glamour charm for that, if you would like it." Seeing Luna's small frown, she waved her hand in casual dismissal, correctly guessing the reason. "It does nothing more significant than even out your skin tone; you won't be altering your appearance in any significant way." Though glamours to appear younger or more fair (in both senses of the word, for some reason) were common enough among the women of the wizarding world, Luna had never bothered with them, and had no intention of starting now.

When she gave a small nod of assent, Narcissa pointed her wand and murmured a small spell. Luna did not flinch or show any signs of discomfort, and the Malfoy matriarch repeated the incantation for instructive purposes, then inclined her head and continued on her way. Luna smiled to herself; nobody seemed to give the Malfoys enough credit. Oh, to be sure, all three of them had done things during the war that warranted a great deal of concern, but she could not fault them for their motives—at least not in the end, when all the pretense and posturing was brushed away, their actions seemed to her to be performed for the most part in the interests of each other, in keeping their family intact.

She knew firsthand that this was not an excuse, but it enabled her to see beyond the past and look at what was right in front of her. In this case, she reflected as she disabled Draco's wards and stepped over the threshold into his room, what she was looking at was a man suffering under the sway of magics greater than they could truly contend with. His arms were held stiffly out at his sides, raised slightly, and he was thrashing as though held in place by them.

It seemed that with every day his phantasms grew worse. Luna was beginning to suspect that part of the spell might actually be working through his unconscious mind and resonating in his nightmares, and that would require a venture into mindhealing. Her studies had taught her much of the theory, but it was not something she'd ever tried before, and she wasn't sure she wanted to risk damaging something vital. Therefore, she'd subjected Draco to every other test she could think of, hoping that the real cause was elsewhere, but even Lanilae and Briar hadn't been able to tell her anything she didn't already know, and they would have mentioned it if he was afflicted with an ailment they or their blood could cure.

The young healer watched with troubled eyes as her patient cried out in his sleep, a raw, broken sound of agony that threatened to rend her own heart asunder. To see anyone in so much pain was wrenching, but something about Draco made it even worse. Perhaps it was the way he tried so vainly to hide evidence of his suffering, or perhaps it was simply the fact that so few people would ever know or think to care.

The thought that the dreams themselves could be damaging his psyche or his magic had occurred to her and, one way or another, she could not allow this to continue. Moving to his side, Luna placed a gentle hand on his bare shoulder. "Draco, it's time to wake up. Moffering Kelmatoshes tend to play tricks on people who sleep too la—"

Her airy scolding was cut off sharply when he grasped her wrist, his blunt fingernails digging furrows into the pale skin of her forearm. Luna bit her lip; he was gripping tightly enough to bruise, and it hurt. He was still in the throes of whatever dream held him, and she tried to pull her wrist away, but his fingers only clenched tighter. "Draco, please, you need to wake up now." She managed to keep her tone calm; it would not do any good for either of them if he was woken violently, and she dared not consider casting an  _Ennervate_ , not when she could not say how it would interact with whatever spell he was under at the moment.

Risking her other hand, she cupped the side of his face, drawing back and tapping a few times. It wasn't forceful, though it was insistent, but before she could try speaking again, Draco wrenched violently, and Luna was hit square in the abdomen with some kind of concussive force. It sent her backwards, and she slammed with uncomfortable violence into the opposite wall, struggling to regain her breath as she sank to the ground. At least his grip hadn't kept her in place, she supposed. Rolling over onto her back, she drew a shaky breath as Draco shouted in his sleep again, but this time he sat bolt upright in his bed, panting heavily.

In the time it took Luna to assess that nothing was broken, he reached a sufficient state of consciousness to notice her presence. "Lovegood? What the bloody hell are you doing on my floor?" Obviously he would have no recollection of what he did in his sleep; he could barely remember the contents of his dreams themselves. Hastily muttering Narcissa's glamour charm to hide the yellow-purple bruise forming on her wrist, Luna put some effort into beaming him one of her most vacant smiles.

"Didn't you know, Draco? This is the best angle from which to look for Nargles." She stood, barely avoiding a wince when her back protested the movement. That wasn't so bad; a potion would take care of that and her wrist without a problem. He scoffed at her, and she accepted this with her usual indulgent equanimity, letting the implied insult roll off her back with practiced ease.

It was better that he did not know what had just occurred. She knew him better than he thought she did, and it would cause him guilt that he didn't need.

She took up her usual spot on the end of his bed, and he was too tired to even glare at her, instead moving obligingly to his spot beside her so she could check him over as she did every morning. "Anything new?" she asked softly, referring to his dreams.

Draco looked at her askance, and seemed to be considering something. She dropped her eyes and took his pulse from his wrist, letting him consider it on his own. He sighed, causing her to glance back upwards. "There's… something above me, dripping some kind of acid or poison or something into my face. This time, though, there was someone else in the room, at the end. They… said something, and held up their hands to try and catch the liquid, I don't know."

Luna mulled over this for a moment, thoughtful. "Can you tell me anything about this person?" She'd finished taking his pulse, but still held his hand in both of hers. He didn't seem to notice, and she was confused when the beating of his heart seemed to increase for a moment before subsiding.

"It's a woman, I think. Maybe fair-haired? I don't really remember." She accepted this and nodded sagely.

"Draco, you might not like what I'm about to say, but… I think you need to see a mindhealer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's kinda short and a little bit introspective, but I hope you don't mind. I've always pictured a mature Hermione as someone who's as practical about attraction as she is about everything else, but maybe that's just me. I know all of these plot threads might seem disparate now, but I promise there's a plan! Thanks to my reviewers for their support; the story wouldn't be the same without you.


	7. Chapter Six: Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus gets a letter. Harry calls in a consult. Narcissa is less than impressed with her son.

_Alexandria, Egypt_

Eating unfamiliar foods in a highly public location with one of his most Gryffindor former students was not exactly how Severus Snape had pictured his postwar activities. Granted, he had mostly suspected that he would be dead by the time this particular year came about, so perhaps it was not a singularly unfortunate occurrence. Indeed, though he would never utter a single syllable to the effect, he did not find Miss Granger's company to be wholly unpleasant.

She was expressive, in the way that former members of her House tended to be, though obviously she retained enough dignity so as not to be childish. Sometimes, Snape forgot what the ordinary range of human emotion looked like; he saw only about five people on a regular basis, and none of them were particularly open with their more visceral responses. Miss Granger allowed her feelings to be writ freely across her face, and perhaps it was just the length of time since he'd last seen someone so obviously content, but he found it fascinating, in some small way.

Lunch, such as it was, mostly passed in silence upon his part, though he did not refrain from asking the occasional astute question when she explained her recent research to him. Apparently after Hogwarts, she'd taken an apprenticeship with one of the archivists at the Wizarding Library at Athens, after which she had been transferred here for her first permanent posting, since she had specialized in ancient runes and texts, a subject for which the most extensive collection was to be found in Alexandria.

Presently, she had explained with barely-contained gesturing, she was at work decrypting a series of tomb inscriptions with the cooperation of Bill Weasley and Blaise Zabini, themselves both curse-breakers who now most often worked on excavation sites, taking down the old magical wards and hexes used to guard such places from unwary invaders. Her first paper had just been accepted for publication by a very reputable journal, and she was by all measures doing quite well for herself.

It was, obviously, nothing less than he'd expected. Though he'd often berated her for drawing her answers directly from text without a hint of innovation, the fact of the matter was that, even considering this irritating tendency, she was a highly-competent witch, and the field suited her. She was logical and organized and patient, as well as clever in the extreme, so what she did now played to her strengths, while not requiring aptitude in the areas she was weaker. He did not choose to disclose any of the details of his own life, which he had gathered quite quickly that she was seeking with the grace of the average bludger, but in the end, she didn't much seem to mind.

Their walk back to the library was passed in silence, though it was surprisingly amicable. Snape could not and did not wish to speak of his own work, or his personal life (not that he really had one), or any of the matters that had passed since they were last acquainted, and though her disappointment was easy enough to read, she seemed to know better than to ask outright.

When they found themselves once again in her office, each of them had a letter waiting, the missives apparently having arrived by owl-post while they were out. Miss Granger examined the unruly handwriting on hers and frowned slightly, more from evident confusion than displeasure, but she opened the correspondence immediately. Severus did the same, though he did not immediately recognize the penmanship and checked the envelope thoroughly for spells first.

It smelled vaguely of peppermint and something floral, which only served to further puzzle him until he scanned its contents.

_S,_

_I hope this finds you well, and that our mutual friend in Egypt has helped you find what you're looking for. I'm writing because I have determined that my patient requires a procedure that I would not be comfortable performing alone. He has expressed reluctance to go elsewhere, for the usual reasons. I was hoping that your knowledge of certain matters of the mind would make your assistance possible. I also think that it would help him if he were familiar with at least one of the parties involved._

_If you could please arrange transport to the place you'd expect, I would be most relieved._

_-L_

He decided that his estimation of Miss Lovegood's intelligence had not been off- she knew not to name anything too specific in correspondence that might be intercepted. What she said was troubling, however, because if a trained mediwitch required assistance that he could provide for a medical procedure, it meant she was most likely venturing into mindhealing, and that was something he did not have great familiarity with.

"Professor?" Miss Granger's voice was tentative, and he realized his displeasure must have been more obvious than he'd intended. "I'm not exactly sure how to put this, but… the Auror Office has called me in to consult on something. I can delay if necessary, but… Ron says it's about murders, and…"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Go. I've been called away also. I will report our findings and return later if it is necessary."

"Of course. Um…" Her continued hesitance caused him to look up, and he observed that she was biting her lip again, a sure sign of nervousness. His own face did not change as he waited for her to spit it out, whatever  _it_  turned out to be.

"Look, if you need any more help with… whatever's happening to Malfoy, I already know a good portion of it, and there's the Vow, so don't hesitate to ask." She looked almost hopeful, and he felt as though he may have to revise his estimation of her common sense. He had been the perfect git to her and all of her little friends for the better part of seven years, and here she was, apparently pleased by the prospect of offering further assistance. Either this was some overwrought form of passive-aggressive response, or something was occurring that he did not fully grasp.

Rather than letting the speculation hit the still air between them, however, he simply did the practical thing and inclined his head slightly. "Of course, Miss Granger. Your assistance thus far is… appreciated." He still wasn't certain how he felt about expressing gratitude one of the infamous  _Golden Trio_ , but unlike Draco, he had mostly moved past his hangups in this regard and was simply a reticent person by nature, so he was not above putting at least this much to words.

She seemed to take it as full thanks, for she smiled broadly. "You're welcome. I hope you figure out what's wrong with him. Well, aside from the usual." Miss Granger scrunched up her nose, and he resisted the urge to sigh. Severus Snape  _did not_  sigh, but truly, sometimes he was nearly driven to it. Two of the most intelligent people he knew, and neither could see that their old animosities would serve them ill.

He did not dignify the comment with a response, fixing her with a withering look until she was quite clearly uncomfortable, then turned smartly on his heel, sweeping out of the room with a fluttering of black fabric.

* * *

_British Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

Hermione entered the Aurors' Office to find the place in complete disarray. Several memos brushed past her as she pulled open the door, and she had to duck to the side to prevent one from nicking her cheek. Blinking, she wondered if she dare enter, but of course Ron had asked her to come, and so she would risk it.

The desks of the Auror field officers and inspectors were in a larger central area, with a break room off to one side and several more private offices behind doors labeled with the names of their occupants. Presently, parchments were heaped over most of the wooden workspaces, occasionally displacing quills, inkpots, or yet more papers onto the floor. Several Aurors, in the traditional dark blue robes of their profession, had their heads stuck in fireplaces, clearly secure floo lines. Those that remained had uniformly dark circles under their eyes, and more than one head of hair was disheveled or askew.

Stepping carefully around the edges of the room, Hermione crept as unobtrusively as possible towards Harry's door, rapping her knuckles lightly on the walnut panels and hoping she wasn't interrupting anything too important. Ron's letter had been vague about the details of what was going on, and she certainly had not expected this.

A weary murmur sounded from behind the door, and it swung open. There was Ron, even more slouched than usual and wearing rumpled clothes that spoke to a number of consecutive days in the office. He managed a flimsy smile, and Hermione frowned. Still, he did have the presence of mind to hug her and usher her into Harry's office. Glancing about, she noted that several others were present: Harry, of course, and a grey-haired woman Hermione recognized as his second-in-command. Seated on chairs facing Harry's desk were two other men, one of whom's red ponytail gave him away as Bill Weasley. The other, she didn't recognize until he turned and inclined his head.

Hermione blinked, but returned the gesture. Bill and Blaise were not in law enforcement; the fact that she worked with them on occasion assured her of it. So what were they doing here of all places?

"Hermione," Harry's voice was a slightly-raspy exhale, and he looked a little worse than even Ron. She was willing to bet he'd been living on coffee, pepper-up, and toast for days at least.

Apparently, whatever was going on had the entire office scrambling to fix it. Glancing up to the wall behind Harry's head, she stifled a gasp. Affixed to the stone with adhesive spells were dozens of photos. Most were of young women in the nude, lying prostrate upon the ground, marks cut into their backs in what appeared to be random patterns. A few more were of the Ouroboros, carved into edifices and walkways, in the constant animation of eating its own tail. "Harry… what's going on?"

Her friend sighed, tracking her stare without needing to turn back and look himself. "Murders, Hermione. Muggle women, but dumped in very populous wizard areas. The Ouroboros is at every scene, but this time there was a message, too. Bill and Blaise have been helping the investigation for a while now, trying to figure out the hex that's being used on the women, but this message, well… we thought that it was more your thing."

Harry stood, picking something up from among the scads of parchments on his desk, and held it out towards her. Not sure she really wanted to know, Hermione nevertheless stepped forward and took it, looking down only once it was within her grasp. There was the serpent again, eating its tail. Beneath it was a series of runes. "Sanskrit? That's mixing mythologies at best."

"That's what I said," put in Bill, speaking for the first time since she'd entered. Blaise nodded silently. "I can't read it, but I recognized it, anyway. The Ouroboros is Norse, it has nothing to do with Sanskrit anything."

Hermione's brows knit together. "Not necessarily. The symbolism is very Norse, yes, but what it symbolizes… nearly every prominent historical mythology has had some parable or symbol relating to eternity or rebirth, it's actually a fairly common motif—" the young woman's eyes lit with recognition.  _Rebirth… renewal… it couldn't be, could it_?

"You make a good point," Bill replied, "but why use such obscure ways of getting the message across if that was all you're driving at?"

"More importantly, why make your message difficult to read at all?" Ron put in. "I mean, Aurors aren't stupid, but we don't know any of this stuff. What's the point of sending a message if nobody understands it?" The others nodded, but Harry's green eyes were firmly fixed on Hermione.

"You figured something out." It wasn't a question. The two of them had known each other so well for so long that recognizing little facial expressions was second nature to them.

Hermione had to think fast. "Oh yes, well… I was just thinking that this relates really well to something I was reading the other day." She gave a sheepish smile, well-aware that the answer was so prototypically  _her_  that everyone would believe it without a doubt. Ron chuckled and patted her shoulder, and that was that. She wasn't sure how much she'd be able to explain, given the terms of the Unbreakable Vow, but she hated lying to them.

It was just something she'd have to mention to Snape. The Auror's Office was known to occasionally collaborate with the Unspeakables, so maybe there was a way to share the necessary information without violating the agreement she'd made to keep her work with the former Professor a secret. Harry just  _had_  to have clearance that high, didn't he? She made a mental note to ask, through owl post if nothing else. Given how fruitless their search had been so far, she wasn't really certain if Snape planned on returning or not. She hoped he would, of course, but…

"I suppose," Blaise contributed in a deadpan, "that it depends on who your audience is." His mild expression was a marked contrast to Bill beside him, whose eyes widened even as he rubbed at his cheek stubble with one hand.

"That is a possibility," he mused. "Perhaps whomever is doing this is targeting someone specific with the message."

"Like who?" Ron shot back. "You can't mean to say that this guy knew 'Mione could read it or something?" The incredulous look he gave his older brother said it all.

Hermione shook her head slowly. "No," she echoed faintly. "Not me… but someone who would know to ask me, maybe." It was a bit too much of a stretch at this point, but at the same time, she had no other leads. She needed to speak with Snape, in person, as soon as possible. Probably Malfoy, too. Two possible references to cataclysmic renewals, so close together? The idea that they were  _not_  connected somehow was far more absurd than the supposition that they were. This wasn't the sort of thing one just encountered in everyday life.

Harry was halfway bent over his desk, rubbing at his temples.  _Just how long has it been since you've slept_? Hermione wondered, though of course she didn't dare ask at the moment. Harry and Ron both were stubbornly resolute when it came to cases, especially the big ones, and she knew by now that nothing she said would make a difference to either of her best friends.

There was a way she could help, though. Right now, Hermione suspected she was the only link between what the Aurors knew and what the Unspeakables knew, which put her in an excellent position to help both groups. Unfortunately, she was also aware that it would be a delicate balance, especially since the way in which the two things connected was still an unknown quantity, and even knowing what she did advanced her no closer to producing a likely culprit.

For now, she needed to translate this Sanskrit, and then she would have to write to Snape.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Gardens_

At around the same time as Hermione was coming to this realization, Draco was taking lunch with his mother out in the gardens of Malfoy Manor. Lovegood had disappeared some time ago, and he hadn't bothered to inquire after her location. He knew she was somewhere on the grounds; she certainly wouldn't leave while he was still afflicted with whatever this was.

He'd been irate at the suggestion that he needed a mindhealer, and fortunately in this case, logic was on his side. There was simply no way they could risk exposing the details of their work to the world, especially because to do so would lose them not only Draco's cover, but Snape's, and he wasn't going to allow that. The Malfoys by this time knew exactly what it was like to be treated as social pariahs, and what Snape would endure if he was once again placed in the spotlight might be worse. Certainly, he'd been doing Dumbledore's will the entire time, but few would bother with the truth. The media never did (as even Potter would admit), and most would never understand the former Professor enough to know the difference.

Draco himself was charismatic enough in a certain fashion to have diverted most of the negativity and concentrated media attacks on his family into useless speculation about his wild lifestyle, and in that sense, things had gone back to normal. He was certainly notorious, but there were useful ways to ply that image, to turn it from 'henchman to a madman' notorious to 'darkly charming playboy heir' notorious. Pathetic, actually, how simple it had been. People wanted to forget that shadowed moment in time, and so they did.

But unless he wanted more scrutiny of a markedly less-benign kind, he would be staying well away from St. Mungo's, and Lovegood could bloody well deal with it.

"Draco, what has you so occupied today?" Narcissa asked, fixing him with a keen gaze. There was a barely-perceptible glint of amusement in his mother's eyes, one that he knew well.

"Nothing in particular, mother." He shrugged diffidently, casting his eyes over the rosebushes as if to prove it.

Narcissa wasn't convinced. "Perhaps it is our poor houseguest who produces that thoughtful frown of yours?" She asked lightly, bringing her glass of white wine to her lips casually.

Draco's brows knit together. "Lovegood? And why would I be thinking about her?" He realized belatedly that he actually had been, after a fashion, and it had been a good few hours since he'd seen her last, which was unusual. Normally, she was insistent in checking up on his condition several times a day, and often followed him from room to room as he went about his business, settling herself in this or that corner, usually to read or stare vacantly at the ceiling like his own personal shadow. It was… strange, now that she was not doing so.

Narcissa tilted her head to one side, regarding him with what appeared to be apathy but carried a small amount of disdain. "I do believe I taught you to be both more observant and more polite than that." His only response was a blank look, and she sighed heavily, placing her wineglass back down on the white tablecloth.

"You  _do_  remember the…  _circumstances_  under which she was last here?" Draco blinked. He could not recall Lovegood having ever been on the property before a few weeks ago. His mother's lips pursed into a tight line. "Yes, well, I suppose you had other things to think about at the time. She was in the dungeons for several months, Draco. While you were away at school, she became a favorite of Bella's." Narcissa clearly had to force her sister's name past her lips, and it came out as much a low hiss as a word.

Draco swallowed. His aunt had been insane, and perhaps the cruelest of the Dark Lord's minions for that. "What? She has never said anything of the sort." He fought to keep his tone bored. Surely he could not have missed something so important…?

His mother raised a delicately-arched eyebrow. "No, she has not. I imagine that when you put so much effort into caring for your patients, you do not wish to remind them of unpleasant things. I, however, have no such reservations." Narcissa regarded him coolly, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

"She does not seem troubled," he said, defending his own inability to recognize the situation.

Closing her eyes for a long couple of seconds, the elegant woman exhaled through her nose, a slow, measured breath. "How closely have you bothered to examine? Truly, Draco, for one so cunning, your selective blindness is extraordinary. Take a look at the girl. And I mean really look. What you see may surprise you. …It certainly surprised  _me_ ," the last was muttered so softly he wasn't sure he was meant to hear it. His mother rose and departed from the table then, leaving her son baffled behind her. She rarely ever criticized him, preferring to leave that task to his father, as Lucius found it much easier. Furthermore, why would she tell him about Lovegood's problems anyway, especially if the woman herself was trying to hide them? Narcissa did not do things so directly unless she had a very good reason to do so.

Damn if he knew what it was.

* * *

_Bangladesh_

The nightclub was full, the smell of sweaty humanity prevalent in the stale air, laced with the heady mixture of aftershave, cologne, and perfume that only such places ever produced. It was murder on his senses all around; the loud music pounding in his ears was bound to give him a headache, and the writhing masses on the dance floor with their more reserved counterparts at the bar did nothing for his eyes.

He had always been a connoisseur of the finer, more refined things in the world, and this was certainly not where one went looking for them. Still, he understood his task, and soon enough, one of these would be the canvas for his art, willing or not. A tableau of struggle, a melody proclaiming resistance in futile cries, and that thing he savored the most: the slow bleed of life, the dimming of the light behind her eyes as her vitality would leave her.

His work so far had been flawed, but not by any fault of his own. No, no; the master had reassured him that of course the corrupted palette could not produce true art. He needed better colors to work with, a purer surface on which to paint the brush-strokes of agony and rapture that held him captive in his dreams. He was looking for  _her_ , the perfect  _tabula rasa_  on which to compose his masterwork. Some small part of him knew he would not find her here, amidst the sinners and the impure, but he had to perfect his technique, for he would have only one chance to leave transcendent mastery behind him.

Eyes, his but not his, roved over the crowd, and a head of flaxen hair caught his attention. It belonged to a pale, slender woman of the age he preferred, and a slow smile broke out on his face, the wicked quality to it easily overlooked in a den of seduction and sin such as this. Smoothly, he worked the half-familiar limbs through the crowd, brushing up behind her and allowing the length of this sinuous body to press up against hers, moving in tandem.

The sultry glance she sent over her shoulder was replaced by wide-eyed recognition, and he nearly cursed. She knew him. It seemed, however, that this was not important, or maybe it was all that was important, for the surprise was superseded by something greater than he could have hoped for.

She  _wanted_  him, the foolish chit, and she would be his in all the ways she was not expecting.

Bending down, he let his hot breath linger on the shell of her ear for a few seconds before adding a throaty whisper of sound. "Let's get out of here," he urged, running a hand up the inside of her thigh. She sighed, leaning back into him, and his satisfied smirk was obviously in-character, for she fluttered her lashes at him and turned into his body, planting a hot open-mouthed kiss on his lips.

"Oh Draco, I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

_Alexandria, Egypt, Hermione Granger's Residence_

_**Latest Victim of Mysterious Slasher Found Dead Near Ministry of Magic**_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Many of the wizarding world's darkest suspicions were confirmed this morning, when yet another victim of the magical community's newest serial killer was found disrobed and mutilated in front of the Ministry building this morning. The killing marks the latest attack by the unknown assailant, and this time, the statement seems to be personal._

_The victim, identified within minutes as Miss Astoria Greengrass, was seen leaving a nightclub in Bangladesh by friends last night, but the young witch apparently never made it home. The nature of the victim—all of the prior killings were of Muggles—as well as the location of the dump site both suggest an escalation. Ministry officials and the Auror's Office both declined to comment, leaving the populace wondering whether or not their law enforcement is even capable of—_

Hermione threw down her morning copy of the  _Daily Prophet_  with a scowl, swallowing too much of her tea and accidentally burning her mouth. She'd sent an owl to Snape yesterday, requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience, but apparently whatever had demanded his attention was taking place today, and she was simply going to have to wait. Truth be told, she understood, but she couldn't help but feel that she had to share her information with him as soon as possible. There was no telling when the next young woman would show up dead.

The brightest witch of her age was certainly smart enough to notice a pattern—all of the victims had been young, attractive, and blond females. Knowing more than a few people who fit that description was not easing her mind in the slightest, and she worried for her friends and coworkers. Of course, not many of the people she associated with frequented nightclubs or bars, but… still.

Glaring at the paper, she set her jaw and went about resolutely cleaning up after breakfast. She'd just have to keep at it by herself until Snape showed up. There was no way that Sanskrit was just going to translate itself, after all.


	8. Chapter Seven: Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus and Luna pioneer a field of magic, but their test subject isn't happy about it. The murder investigation proceeds apace.

_Malfoy Manor_

Snape swept up the approach to Malfoy Manor; though the grounds were warded against apparition, the occupants had long assured that he was allowed onto them on foot without difficulty or harassment.

The solid crunch of gravel beneath his dragonhide boots was the only sound in the crisp morning air, and it served a nice staccato compliment to the pattern of his thoughts turning one over another as they were. He would not say as much, but the fact that Draco's condition was so protracted as to have lasted a fortnight and some days was not reassuring to him. He had looked into Luna Lovegood's post-Hogwarts credentials, and he was impressed, ensured that there was hardly a more competent mediwitch practicing. More than that, she had the edge of working in experimental medicine, something that should have helped her identify and treat Draco's condition by now.

In a way, he supposed she had, but the news was unwelcome. Her updates, sent along in one large package yesterday to the house at Spinner's End, indicated that Draco still had no control over his magic. It was not blocked, just twisted, the typical pathways of magical conveyance warped beyond use. Generally speaking, a wizard's magical network ran in parallel to the nervous system. It was how they were able to direct a spell from a thought in their brain through a focus like a wand and out into external reality. Exactly how that jump was made was still a mystery, but Miss Lovegood herself had authored several papers on the subject, and gone so far as to innovate a procedure for examination of the magical network, which she had termed 'othersight.' Snape had actually tried it, and the results had been nothing short of remarkable. Presented as veins of startling color beneath a veneer of ambient shimmering, the pathways lit when magic was directed along them.

What she had seen of Draco's indicated that his natural magic was still present, but the pathways themselves were altered. As these pathways originated in the brain, Healer Lovegood hypothesized that the problem did as well. Add to this the fact that the only other discernible symptom of the hex was a persistent, increasingly-graphic nightmare, and Severus had to admit that there was no better explanation for the information at their disposal.

His thoughts bore him to the manor door, and when he knocked, a house-elf immediately answered. Her pillowcase garment was immaculately clean, and she smiled rather then cowering away from him. "Ah, Master Snape is here. Miss Luna and Master Malfoy are in his living quarters. Sparrow will take you, she will." The elf, apparently speaking of herself in the third person, led him up a flight of stairs, and then down a lushly-carpeted hallway in burgundy.

Draco's wing of the manor, Snape knew from experience, contained several rooms his godson scarcely used and four he frequently did. One was the obvious bedchamber, another the attached washroom, the third was a study, and the last a clandestine training room, hidden away from most notice by virtue of a passage from his ill-used salon. Apparently, they were conducting this venture in the last, which was probably advisable, considering that the area was heavily warded against damage from magic output. Severus spoke the phrase that would disable the ward, and the bookcase issued a soft  _click_ , swinging outward soundlessly. Stepping aside to avoid it, he slipped into the well-maintained passage it revealed, letting the mechanism close behind him.

The room itself was circular in shape, and from the descending angle of the passage that led to it, Snape knew it was also underground. Of course, unless the disabling words were spoken, the bookcase would reveal nothing but a smooth, papered wall behind itself, but the stone of this space was most unlike that. Light grey, worn ridgeless and almost marble-like in texture, the polished granite reflected the sparse light of a few floating candelabras, Miss Lovegood's work, if the silver-etched designs were anything to go by.

Draco sat in the center of the room, on what appeared to be a dark green and cherry-wood chaise lounge, likely transfigured, given that the rest of the room was occupied by practice dummies and various pieces of magical equipment that could be activated to mimic the behavior of given aggressive creatures. He looked somewhat uncomfortable, which was perhaps understandable, but for some reason, he was frowning at the turned back of Luna Lovegood as she swept her wand this way and that, clearing ample space for them and transfiguring two more dummies into matching chairs for Severus and herself as well.

It took Snape clearing his throat for Draco to snap his eyes over to his mentor, and that troubled him. Unspeakables were highly-trained, incredibly skilled individuals; Draco's focus should have been on the entrance the moment he heard the bookshelf open. Miss Lovegood, however, seemed unsurprised by his presence, and smiled over at him, though he noticed it was a bit wan, as though it cost her more effort than usual. "Ah, Severus. It's good to see you." He also took note of her use of his first name, but found that it didn't particularly bother him.

"Miss Lovegood," he replied neutrally, sweeping himself into one of the seats. He did not, for the moment, acknowledge Draco. "What has changed?"

She glanced at Draco, who was pointedly looking at neither of them, and he could have sworn he heard her sigh softly. "The dreams are now resulting in external manifestations of magic."

Snape's brows furrowed. "Unconscious magic use, then?" Her nod was simple, causing the baubles at her ears to sway gently, but Draco now appeared to be cluing into the conversation, and quite perturbed at that.

"I've been using magic in my sleep? Why didn't you say something?" He glared at the healer, and she returned it steadily, blinking slowly.

"Because you needed a proper night's sleep before this procedure, and if I'd told you what happened, you would not have slept." Her words were almost matter-of-fact, and she shrugged her thin shoulders delicately. Draco appeared to be thinking something through, and whatever it was must have clicked, because his frown deepened into a scowl.

"Yesterday morning, when I woke up, you were on the floor. Are you telling me  _I_  did that?" Her silence was all the answer either of the men needed, and Snape watched with interest as confusion, followed by things closely resembling  _regret_  and  _hurt_  flickered through his godson's eyes, darkening the grey of his irises. How very curious.

"It hardly matters now," Severus put in, saving the woman from answering. "What matters is, I'm sure you realize,  _fixing_  the problem. Are we to proceed?" He didn't miss the grateful smile she gave, but Draco didn't either, and reclined on the lounge with slitted eyes. Snape was uncomfortably reminded of an incident from his youth, and the unwelcome thought settled in his mind, unwilling to be banished. Setting his jaw, he simply worked around it.

"We'll do this as quickly as we can, Draco, but we have to get it right the first time." Luna locked eyes with Severus and nodded.

He had spent the rest of the afternoon yesterday rereading every tome on Occlumency and Legilimency he knew, looking for something that would help them here. After a flurry of owl-post discussion with Miss Lovegood, which had culminated in a floo call to Malfoy Manor, they'd decided that the dreams had to be the key, and that it would be best to attempt to enter Draco's mind while he was asleep. The area of  _somni-legilimency_  was still poorly researched at best, kept in one of those obscure intersections between mediwizardry, mind-arts, and perhaps even a touch of questionably-shaded magic that meant nobody knew enough to be considered an expert in it.

What the two of them were about to try would be groundbreaking if it succeeded. If it didn't… they might well fracture Draco's mind, and permanently. There were risks to themselves as well; dreams were notoriously-difficult things to deal with, and aside from the unconscious manipulation of dream that Voldemort had managed to enact on Harry Potter and the very hit-and-miss rubbish pontificated by oracles and seers, dreams were considered entirely untouchable by the magic of wizards whilst being inextricably connected to it.

Perhaps, though, if anyone could prove that folk hypothesis to be false, it would be a master of Legilimency and a very skilled mediwitch.

They had decided that it would be safer if Snape actually refrained from entering the dream himself. His skills were such that it would be possible for him to observe what was happening without involving himself in it too much, and in this way, he would also be able to monitor Miss Lovegood in case she drifted too far away from her own mind, something that happened rather often to oracles with actual skill. They needed her more rational functions intact, however, and his mind-magic  _should_  be able to pull her back if things went awry.

They both knew the risks.

To his surprise, she was just as willing to take them as he was.

He was quite certain Draco did not understand just how much he owed this woman.

The aforementioned patient looked more than a little perplexed at the barrage of new information hurled back and forth between his godfather and his healer. They'd clearly formulated a plan without him, which obviously irked him, but in the end he simply lay back obediently when Miss Lovegood pressed a vial of a light pink liquid into his hand and applied gentle pressure to his shoulder until he reclined against the chaise.

Uncorking the glass, he tipped the contents of the vial back, and Severus watched his muscles go almost immediately slack. Miss Lovegood, who was doubtless not shocked in the slightest, caught the glass before it fell from his loose fingers to the stone floor, setting it aside.

As Draco's eyes drifted closed, she stood, pocketing the vial and turning to Severus. "We should make ourselves comfortable, I suppose; it won't be long now."

He nodded, waving one of the chairs closer and settling into it while she sank down, oddly enough, to the floor in front of Draco, pressing her back up against the arm of the lounge.

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Interview Room 3_

Harry had never liked this part; interviewing grieving relatives was not exactly his cup of tea, so to speak. It was, he thought, especially bad when those relatives were female, because there was usually crying involved, and he just didn't deal well with crying people.

Still, this case was important enough that they needed the best Aurors on the job. Ron was handling the father, and Violet he'd seen on his way by, handing the disconsolate mother a handkerchief and looking vaguely lost for all her professionalism. Nobody really managed the grief of others all that well, he expected. 

Well, save perhaps Luna, but she was something else. He invariably thought of Sirius whenever he had to go through this series of questions with someone, and of course that always brought the reminder that when he'd thought himself completely lost to his mourning, she'd somehow known just what to say. Ironic, when half the things that came out of her mouth were completely unbelievable.

He paused for a moment outside the one-way mirror that looked into the room he'd set up Astoria's sister in. The woman was facing away from it, probably well-aware of what it was. He understood that she worked with Lupin, mostly, in the Department of Mysteries. Daphne Greengrass. They must have been classmates, but of course she like her now-deceased sister was a Slytherin, which at the time had been sufficient justification for him to ignore her existence. Not so now.

He noted her posture, straight and formal, and the way her ink-black Unspeakable standard-issues were pressed and absent of all dirt. She was fastidious, then, and very neat. Also probably logical rather than emotional, if she'd remembered to tuck her deep red hair up into a bun before she came in this morning, despite being woken by the news. He wasn't sure if that was admirable or somehow off-putting.

Deciding that he wasn't going to get much more from standing outside, he pushed open the door and entered the examination room, sitting in the chair across from her and folding his hands on the table in front of him. She regarded him coolly, but any impression he'd had that she didn't care whether or not her sister was dead disappeared the moment his green eyes met hers. They were a lighter shade, rather like the color that some cats had, a jade to his emerald. He noticed because they were also rimmed red and slightly puffy, evidence that she'd been weeping. She was nothing but dignity now, though, and if her exhale was a little more steadying than it would have been for someone else, he pretended not to notice.

"Miss Greengrass, I—"

She shook her head sharply. Her words were crisp, businesslike. "Spare me the consolations, Mister Potter. You know as well as I that they mean nothing." Her tone was modular, even, though there was a breathy rasp to the end that signified a slight fray on the ropes holding her emotions in place.

He could relate.

"Okay," he agreed, unable to keep the faintest note of surprise from his tone.

She smiled mirthlessly, and it struck him then, just then, that she was an incredibly lovely woman, proud in features and elegant of carriage. Of course, Harry noticed things like this as part of his job, so he didn't lend the observation much more attention than simply that.

She placed her hands on the table as well, mirroring his gesture, an old one meant to convey a nonthreatening demeanor, since there were no wands involved. Entirely pointless with the two of them, who were doubtless well trained in magic both nonverbal and wandless. "You want to know about my sister, anything that will help you track down her killer. I'm your best chance, since my mother's too aggrieved, and my father's far too into his drink." The way she presented the information was so blunt, so absolutely matter-of-fact, that he was taken aback, unable to do much more than nod.

"Remus says good things about you, Harry Potter, and he is not one to give his faith lightly. If he trusts you, that's good enough for me, for now." She paused, and he could almost see her composing her thoughts, though only by the flicker and play of shadows behind her eyes. "Astoria was… reckless, irresponsible, and the consummate younger sibling. She was also incredibly dependent and tended to form emotional attachments too easily. That alone would have been her undoing, growing up in Slytherin, if I hadn't been there to look out for her."

Daphne, who had been staring at her hands, raised her eyes to meet his, and Harry's breath hitched unexpectedly. There was something very fearsome about this woman, as though the force of her willpower was an almost palpable thing. She was clearly keeping her sorrow at bay with nothing more than mental discipline, because a certain kind of softness was edging in on the businesslike nature of her words. "The funny thing is, her hair isn't even naturally blond. She began charming it that way from the age of fifteen because she heard a rumor that Draco Malfoy preferred women with that hair color."

Harry's brows knit together. "And she still, er, did? This many years later?"

Daphne's lips compressed into a thin line. "Draco was, and really still is, something of a prick, Mister Potter, but he was one of the few people who didn't try to take advantage of her softness. Whether this was due to his friendship with me or for some redeeming facet of his nature, I cannot say. I tell you this because he was also her last boyfriend, and such pieces of information are usually valuable. I believe she hoped he would be so again."

Harry nodded, not really sure what to think of that little tidbit. It was something when even your  _friends_  said you were an arrogant git, but all the same, he doubted Draco would have much to do with this. Then, something struck him. "Did she know about, well… his actual job? Or yours, for that matter?"

Daphne shook her head. "No, on both accounts. My parents barely even know. They believe I occupy a minor, but relatively lucrative research position that forces me to keep long hours in a Transfiguration lab. She was not likely abducted for any information on Unspeakable activities."

"I see. Forgive me, Miss Greengrass, but I have to ask… would Astoria willingly leave a nightclub with a stranger?" He didn't really know how to put it any more delicately than that.

Daphne's eyes fell shut, and she took a slow breath. "After she and Draco didn't work out? Probably. Now, though… I don't think so. Unless there was trickery involved, I think she'd be more discerning than that, but as I mentioned, she is…  _was_ … emotionally vulnerable, and generally otherwise susceptible to manipulation." Harry leaned back in his chair when her eyes opened, trying to figure out what that really meant for their case.

"Then either we have someone who was able to trick her somehow, or she knew the person who killed her." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Don't discount the possibility that both are true, Mister Potter," Daphne replied quietly, and he glanced back up to see that her shoulders had slumped somewhat.

"Of course," he said sincerely. "Look, Miss Greengrass, if you want updates on the case, your clearance is high enough that it shouldn't be a problem…" he offered, hesitating somewhat. It was a bit outside of standard protocol, but he couldn't help but want to exploit the loopholes that existed. Something about this whole situation tugged at him, reminding him uncomfortably of his own losses.

Her voice, a musical, Irish-accented alto, was firm again when she replied. "No. I would much rather you did this by the books, so that when he is finally caught, there will be no way for him to worm out of it." That fierceness was back, and Harry swallowed.  _Remind me never to cross her_ , he thought to nobody in particular. The irony of a Slytherin reminding him to follow the rules was not lost on him, but in the face of the whole situation, he could find nothing humorous in it.

"Okay. Sure. Of course." It was rare that anyone reduced him to repeating himself anymore, but he supposed there were certain personality types that could still manage it. He stood, and gestured that it was permissible for her to do the same. Surprised somewhat when she was much taller than he'd expected (about his own height), he followed her out of the room.

It looked like he was going to have to dredge up the patience to speak to Draco Malfoy about a deceased ex-girlfriend. Joy of joys. But, he reflected sternly, Astoria and her family deserved that much effort from him, however unpleasant it was bound to be. It would have to wait until tomorrow, though, because he hadn't slept in… he couldn't actually remember when the last time he'd slept was, let alone at home, in his bed. He wouldn't do anyone any good if he started hallucinating, even if he didn't much like the places his dreams still took him.

Someone, somewhere, was bound to have it worse, right?

* * *

_A Dreamscape_

Luna staggered, barely able to retain her feet, as she was unceremoniously deposited on the ground. She'd been floating through a curious blue-white fog for some length of time that she could not discern, but this too was fading, leaving her with the impression that she was in a stone-walled room otherwise entirely unlike the one she'd just left. The stones were dark, apparently only loosely fitted together, and jagged. Some unidentified moisture ran from the gaps between them in places, seeping into the room and giving it an air of chill damp.

She looked above herself, and noted that there seemed to be no ceiling but a sky, of sorts: completely black save for the chaotic swirls and eddies of color, winking in and out of existence and constantly moving. A collage of colors, too: glittering orange, resplendent gold, midnight blues, and a smattering of silver as well. All flowed and mixed freely, and the light she saw by was as a result always shifting, both in hue and location, a dizzying effect that threw shadows everywhere.

"Draco?" she called, noting that for all this, he didn't seem to be present. Nothing answered her save the muted clink of hanging chains against the wall. There was little mistaking this for anything but a dungeon. It was unusual, though: when she used her othersight, she had to shut her eyes against the brilliance of it. Almost as if the entire thing was composed of magic itself.

Drifting over to one of the walls, she touched it, melding her own magic with it, and sought the somewhat-familiar feeling of Draco's. To the othersight, it appeared as though her grey-violet tendrils were growing into the solid fog-white of the wall, and spreading, seeking. She'd never tried this sort of thing before, but if it was ever to work, surely it would work in a dream, where the laws of reality bent and warped all the time. Luna was hardly as put-off by this proposition as most people would have been; magic had a way of changing things, altering the very nature of the world, and those people only thought they understood things because they tended to happen the same way most of the time.

Her mind was a little more open than that, and she readily embraced the unpredictable, the illogical, and sometimes the downright barmy, because all of it was still magic, and she didn't think that the kind that went the way you thought it would counted any more than the kind you had to  _feel_  and guess at. In this case, it was going to lead her to Draco, and she was glad of that.

Pulling her pale, long-fingered hand from the wall, Luna set off to the left, through a door that had suddenly appeared with no discernible provocation. She knew it would take her where she needed to go.

The steady sound of a fluid dripping, slow and regular, accompanied her down the ill-lit hallway, and it was such that Luna almost ended up matching her pace to it, except something was almost…  _insidious_  about it, and she sped up just slightly to avoid falling into its rhythm. A silly thought to have, maybe, but she'd always trusted her instincts about people and about things, and she had to trust them now, in the absence of anything else.

Eventually, she was able to catch a sound, echoing down the corridor. Furrowing her brow, Luna strained her ears to try and discern it—then gasped. It was a hoarse yell, too far into the throes of agony to even be a proper scream anymore. She knew exactly what that felt like, and had the chilling feeling that she recognized the voice as well as the pain it expressed. A cold tendril of feeling wormed its way up the base of her spine, and she shuddered.

Luna Lovegood, who never rushed, never ran, but drifted and breezed about, broke into a dead sprint, the light fabric of her late-summer robes fluttering in periwinkle tails behind her. Her wand was in her hand without much in the way of thought, and her pace only increased as she drew closer to the sound, the muffled scraping of her shoes on the stone nearly completely lost to the pounding of blood in her ears and the irregular shouts that guided her now. The corridor seemed to grow only longer, stretching out before her in an infinite expansion that drew her desperation from her in equal measure with her breaths.

She reached out with her magic, willing it to stop, willing herself to the side of the sorrowful soul who needed help in this moment, and the hallway seemed to respond, ceasing in its unnatural movement and materializing a black wooden door at its end. Luna crashed into it with none of her usual grace, her momentum throwing it open to rebound off the stone wall on the other side.

She halted jerkily, momentarily struck motionless by what she saw. What had once been a dungeon was now an open space, without walls and completely open to the strangely-colored void around them. Looking back, she noted that the entire structure she'd come from had disappeared, leaving her on this chunk of stone about thirty feet in diameter. At the center of it, a stone table rested at an incline. Strapped to that table, bound by shackles upon his wrists and ankles, pulled taut, was Draco, naked save for a sheet wrapped around his waist. He visibly strained against his bonds, eyes shut and mouth open in a howl of excruciating sensation, and it was not difficult to see why.

Above him, head emerging from a rend in the void, was the head of a giant serpent, twice again the size of a basilisk. Its maw gaped, and from its fangs dripped corrosive poison… right onto Draco. It, too, appeared bound in place, both jaws wrapped with more chains, held open beyond the bounds of natural range of motion. All of the links seemed forged from obsidian, but no mere glass would have been able to hold such a creature.

A tingle swept through Luna's limbs, and she remembered herself, rushing forward to Draco's side. She knew not what to do, but on instinct, she shielded his face with her hands, cupping them together to catch the dripping liquid. She had expected it to hurt, but to her, it felt like nothing more than water, eminently neutral and without caustic effect. To him, it was clearly something else entirely.

"Draco. Draco, can you hear me?" He did not respond, collapsing back against the stone under him, breath ragged and body clearly spent. Luna's hands filled, and she quickly tossed the liquid to one side. Not quite fast enough, for he flinched again, writhing and trying to tear himself from his chains. His wrists were rubbed raw and bloody by his previous efforts, and she was surprised he hadn't broken one or both of his hands yet.

Her healer's training kicked in, and Luna softly murmured the incantations for a basic flesh-mending spell. She tried working something on the chains themselves, but they simply did not react, nor did the substance flowing inexorably downwards. It seemed the only way she'd be able to stop the flow was to put herself in the way of it.

His wrists did repair, though, and she breathed small sigh of relief. She thought she caught some movement in his eyelids, and so she tried speaking to him again. "Draco, it's me. It's Luna. Please, can you answer me?" she kept her voice soft and gentle as she could, knowing that this was an unpredictable situation and he might react negatively to her presence. Her hands were filling again, and she thought fast, sloughing the venom aside and pulling her light purple robes over her head. The fabric would be able to absorb far more than she could simply hold. The ordinary clothes underneath were, she noted with confusion, all white, though she'd certainly been wearing blue and yellow this morning.

Another shout, as what she was too slow to prevent burned in slow trails down his face, and she carefully used her sleeve to dab it from his cheeks and jaw. "Draco, please. Wake up." She watched with bated breath as his eyelashes fluttered, and with a pained groan worn all the more raw by the condition of his throat, his eyes slowly opened. He blinked a few times, clearly both confused and in pain still, his features drawn tight. Squinting up at her, his mouth worked unsuccessfully a few times, and she regarded him with clear concern.

"…Lovegood? What the—" He tried to sit up, stopped abruptly when his chains held him fast, and his eyes darted to them, and to above him where her crumpled robe was still absorbing the slow drip of poison. She smiled, trying to be some kind of comfort, and spoke, quickly but softly.

"I'm here to help you, Draco. Remember? Severus and I are trying to get your magic back." This processed for a few seconds, and then he nodded.

"My wrists…" he looked at the unbroken skin, and she nodded mutely. "How do I get out of here?"

Luna hesitated. "I… I don't know. I've tried unchaining you and stopping the poison myself, but I can't. This is your dream; only you have real power here."

He looked unconvinced. "If I had power here, why the bloody hell would I choose to endure  _this_  every night?" he hissed, laying back and erupting into a coughing fit when the words irritated his throat as they passed. Luna adjusted her grip, pressing the fingertips of one hand to his chest and soothing the rawness and irritation until he stopped. He looked down at her hand just as she was removing it, then up at her with something she could not identify flickering across his face.

"Because you didn't  _believe_  it. You still don't, not really. You believe that just when it becomes too much, you'll wake up, and that will be enough." He scoffed derisively, but she continued. "Remember who and what you are, Draco. This whole place, it wasn't made by that spell, not really. This is what you have devised, a prison of your own magic. Only you can free yourself of it." He scowled and turned his head to one side, but she used her free hand to gently turn it back again, forcing him to look at her.

"I can't leave, either, if you don't free yourself. The way I came is gone."

"Not my problem, Lovegood. If you can't be arsed to keep away from things that are obviously dangerous, then maybe you deserve it." She sighed.

"Surely, you can't want this to return to the way it was?" she gestured upwards, where the great serpent's maw hung over them still, like an omen of imminent demise. Her question was met only with silence, and it was then that several things clicked into place for Luna. "Oh…"

"Don't. Pity me," he ground out viciously, and looked about ready to continue, perhaps launch into some kind of tirade, when she covered his mouth, leaning in closer so that he had no choice but to make eye contact.

"I have never pitied you, Draco. All I've ever done is believe in you. I believe in you now, even if you don't believe in yourself." She glanced overhead, to where she could feel the damp starting to soak through her robes, still held aloft by her other hand. His eyes followed hers, and apparently reached the same conclusion she did. He gave a halfhearted tug at his chains, but they refused to give, and his arm went slack again.

Wait… slack? Before, they'd been pulled so tight, he could barely move. The revelation danced over Luna's face, and he must have caught it too, because he tugged again, this time harder. The stake holding the opposite ends of the chain in place gave a groan of protest, and a smile blossomed slowly over Luna's face. Her free hand grasped his, and they pulled together, the combined effort wrenching the metal stake from the stone, and Draco rolled to the side even as the first drop escaped her sodden robe and splashed onto the surface where his head had been a moment before. Carefully, Luna set her robe down and went to help with his feet, even as Draco himself hauled his other arm free. The two worked frantically, and within moments, she was helping him leverage off the table, laying one of his arms across her shoulders as he fumbled for balance, supporting him as well as she could.

She looked up at him and grinned like a fool. Much to her surprise, he mirrored the gesture even through his still-accelerated breathing. His hair was mussed; several white-blond strands fell into his eyes. Luna tilted her head to one side and reached up, brushing them away. The smile slid off his face, and she was afraid she'd done something very wrong when his irises seemed to darken to gunmetal grey.

Swallowing, she quickly looked away, asking the obvious question. "Why are we still…?"

If he had an answer, it was drowned in the rush of noise as their surroundings blurred around them. Luna felt her feet leave the ground, and Draco's presence disappeared from beside her. She felt as though she were rotating at dizzying speed, but she could not say for sure. Everything around her was pitch-dark; it may have just been her head that spun.

She had no idea where she was going, but somehow she very much doubted that the answer was "back to her own body."


	9. Chapter Eight: Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's unconscious mind is not the most pleasant place to be.

_A Dreamscape_

"Hey. Hey, are you awake? You're not  _dead_ , are you?" The voice reached Luna from what seemed a distance, but slowly she was regaining access to her thoughts, and drawing closer to what felt like her own body. Was she perhaps back in the training room, done with dreams for the moment?

Something poked her in the ribs, and she flinched away on instinct, her silvery eyes snapping open as the voice—not one she recognized—repeated its inquiry. Luna made a small noise when the light proved to be too much initially, and she had to blink several times before she adjusted properly, the blurring environment resolving itself in front of her into sharper images that she could make sense her was what appeared to be Draco's bedroom, only…  _different_. The bookshelves were nearly empty, and what books there were seemed to be more colorful than she would have expected. The bed linens were in similar colors (dark green, of course, though the sheets were white rather than black), but the room seemed much bigger, emptier somehow, as though he hadn't gotten around to filling it properly. A window stood open, the breeze stirring a gossamer curtain in cream.  
She was poked again, this time from behind, and rolled over to face her attacker, only to intake her breath sharply, eyes growing wide. The person that looked back at her had solemn grey eyes, hair several shades lighter than hers, and an unmistakable aristocratic bearing.

"…Draco?" He also couldn't be more than ten years old.

The boy blinked and took a step back, his surprise evident for several seconds, until he seemed to remember himself and smoothed his childish features into a very mature impassivity. "How do you know my name?" He demanded, narrowing his gaze in a way so strikingly-similar to the one he still possessed that it surprised her anew.

"I'm your friend." For Luna, the answer was obvious, and she smiled, trying to understand this new predicament placed before her. In the end, there wasn't much to be discerned with such scant information, and so she did what Luna did best: decided to go along with it and see what would happen.

"No you're not," he argued, his tone haughty, straightening to his full ten-year-old height and gazing imperiously down at the woman on the floor. Any doubts she might have had that this was actually Draco Malfoy vanished then and there.

"Am I not?" she echoed curiously, rolling onto her feet with a kind of careless, graceful ease. "How do you know?"

Draco crossed his arms, and she realized that the object she'd been poked with was a wand, though obviously not his. It now stuck out from behind one of his elbows. He was forced to look up at her then, as she was considerably taller than he. "I don't  _have_  any friends." His tone of voice suggested that this was something to be proud of rather than sad about, but Luna could only feel a twinge of sympathy in her chest. She knew  _exactly_  what that felt like, and no matter how stubborn the child, there was no way he actually enjoyed that state of affairs.

"What about Pansy and Blaise, or Vincent and Gregory?" Luna remembered the latter two following Draco around everywhere when he was in school, and how distraught Harry said he'd been over what happened to Crabbe.

Child-Draco snorted derisively, another mannerism she wouldn't have thought someone so diminutive should have. "Pansy's a brat, Crabbe and Goyle are too stupid to be friends with anyone but each other, and Blaise thinks he's  _better_  than me." His lip curled into his trademark sneer, and she supposed to herself that it was probably only a year before this Draco would be boarding the Hogwarts express after all.

Luna was caught between a smile and a sigh. On one level, it was kind of amusing, but mostly just incredibly sad. "Well, I suppose I wouldn't know much about that," she replied dreamily, "but…" she locked eyes with Draco and crouched in front of him so they were at the same height. "I do know that  _I'm_  your friend, and I'm the one that gets to say so. You don't have to be mine if you don't want to." He looked about to protest, but her final words seemed to mollify him somewhat.

"What are you doing here, then?" He still appeared to be looking for a reason to be cross (some things, thought Luna, really didn't change much at all), but she chose not to rise to the bait.

"I'm here to spend time with you, of course. That's what friends do. Oh, and explore your house, because they do fun things like that, too." She needed to figure out what was going on, since she suspected she was still in Draco's mind somewhere. A single white-blond eyebrow ascended the boy's forehead, and he huffed.

"Well, fine. I  _suppose_  I ought to come with you; you'll get lost otherwise, or break something important." Luna simply nodded, bright smile firmly in place. Without bothering to ask, she took his hand in hers and started forward. He looked considerably startled by this action, and she tried to contain an airy chuckle when she realized that he was turning a faint shade of pink, mumbling something incoherent and cranky under his breath.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Hidden Chamber_

The room in which the three had ensconced themselves was remarkably silent. Severus was reclined in his chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, his hands steepled gracefully beneath his chin. Almost as soon as Miss Lovegood had been swallowed by whatever blackness had taken her, he'd been forcibly thrown from Draco's mind, the younger wizard's Occlumency kicking in apparently unconsciously. Try as he might, Snape could not penetrate the veil of darkness that separated him now from the consciousness (or unconsciousness, as the case may be) of his godson, and though the casual ease of his posture might suggest otherwise, he was deeply troubled by this.

What he  _had_  seen, tugged along invisibly in the footsteps of Xenophilius's daughter, had troubled him. The scene, with alterations, was a well-known one in certain mythologies, in which the trickster was punished for his indiscretions. The most obvious analogue was Loki of Norse mythology, bound beneath the world serpent and forced to endure the trickling agonies of Jörmungandr's venom. Even the girl's role mirrored that of the loyal Sigyn, but this was not the only possible interpretation. Prometheus, too, had been chained to a stone after stealing fire from the gods, though his torture was to have a carrion bird tear him open and eat at his innards every day, until they were restored with the night only for the cycle to begin anew.

Perhaps the presence of the serpent was a twisted nod to Draco's former allegiance to Voldemort, perhaps it was a jab at his affiliation with Slytherin. Such things tended to carry over into the world after a student's time at Hogwarts far more than Snape believed they should, but even he was not immune to giving old attributions more credit than they were due, and he knew this well. Snape folded his last three fingers on each hand together and brought his joined index digits to tap thoughtfully upon his lips in a metronomic rhythm.

This was something that could stand the examination of another mind almost as analytical as his own. Miss Lovegood was too closely involved, and Draco was in no position to be objective about it either, which meant that his best candidate for the discussion was obviously Miss Granger. Blaise Zabini and Bill Weasley would have been good options as well, but neither of them knew of his continued existence, and logic dictated that as few people be brought in on the secret as possible. It would not always be possible to secure Unbreakable Vows, and obliviation was something he would rather avoid. Lupin and Greengrass didn't specialize in this area, and therefore would not be ideal, despite the fact of their respective intellects.

Very well; he would simply have to make another appointment for the library by owl post. This idea did not displease him as much as he thought it would, which left him feeling vaguely unsettled.

Such feelings were, of course, the least of his concerns right now, and his flinty black eyes swept with calculation over the two unconscious bodies before him. Draco was still against the chaise on his back, angled slightly upward at the torso, but his arms were no longer folded neatly over his chest. He'd thrashed upon the advent of the dream, but his right hand now draped over the edge of the lounge, firmly grasped in the much smaller left of Miss Lovegood, who was seated cross-legged on the floor, and had apparently in her slumber reached up to catch hold of it.

Snape telegraphed absolutely no reaction to this, but a single word echoed hollowly in his mind, where it had derailed any other thoughts he'd been having. It was the same word he'd thought of earlier, watching Draco watch her as she moved about, and he cursed himself for the sentiment.

_Lily_.

* * *

_A Dreamscape, Elsewhere_

It had seemed that Draco knew where he was going, tugging her along behind him with a determined stride, his other hand still holding the wand, but when she'd opened her mouth to ask where they were going, the words had not come, and no amount of effort on her part would allow her to speak them. Looking at him now, his eyes seemed slightly glazed, as if he were in a trance, or somehow a sudden somnambulist. Luna wasn't sure what to make of it, so she allowed the events to run their natural course, less wary than another might have been in this situation.

Draco turned the knob on a door she'd never seen before, somewhat awkwardly due to the fact that one hand was in hers and the other held tightly to the wand, but when he pushed it open and they stepped through, Luna found herself standing, along with the young Malfoy, in the halls of Hogwarts castle. Well, not the halls so much as the Astronomy Tower, really. Presently, a figure sat, legs dangling carelessly out the window, staring off at the stars beyond.

Draco, whose expression seemed to have cleared once again, looked at her expectantly, and Luna shrugged lightly, walking forward with him until he could see what she already knew: the figure was herself, at approximately age fifteen. Her school robes were open in the front, the mismatched quality of her clothes underneath rather obvious. She smiled; that combination of pale green and amethyst purple really was nice, even if her black-and-white striped knee socks weren't exactly regular. She was fairly certain they'd just learned a color-alteration Charm in class that day, and she'd always been enamored with it. Her dirigible plum earrings, handmade, swung freely from her ears, and she was quite happily entertained with some digestives (a rare Muggle treat for someone so steeped in magic) and a small, silvery telescope, a Christmas gift from Daddy.

The boy beside her looked back and forth between her twenty-four-year-old self to her fifteen-year-old one, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Is she your sister or something?" he asked, still sounding vaguely put-off by the whole experience, though perhaps not as much so as he should have been, all things considered. She wondered why that was.

"No," Luna replied softly, but she did not elaborate further, because the two became aware of the footsteps behind them at precisely that moment and turned, still joined at the palm, to see a frustrated-looking older version of Draco striding into the tower. His normally-neat hair was askew, and his eyes were red-rimmed and a trifle wild. He raked unsteady hands through his fine blond coif, a testament to how exactly it had reached its present condition, and from this distance, they could easily pick out the jagged sound of his breathing.

Pulling his hawthorn wand from his robes, the teenaged Draco pointed it at the nearest stack of stargazing instruments and charting tools and fired off a quick blasting spell. Pieces of metal and glass went flying everywhere, some even threatening to rebound and hit the wizard responsible until suddenly they all froze, suspended and motionless as though floating in some thick liquid rather than the air.

Both Dracos snapped their heads to where the teenaged girl was sitting, but Luna didn't need to. She knew that her younger self would be tucking her ashwood wand behind her ear and smiling dreamily as usual, rising to her feet, and collapsing her miniature spyglass, tucking it into her robes even as she lifted the package of digestives in her free hand. The young woman standing with the boy mouthed the words silently even as they were expressed in a more childish voice. "Hello, Draco. I must say I wasn't expecting you here today. You usually only end up in the Tower on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

The youth across from her looked momentarily nonplussed, staring at the frozen shards of metal and glass as if seeing them for the first time, then at the only other person in the room he could see. His breathing slowed, calmed, and his shoulders slumped somewhat as he relaxed them. Both Lunas smiled at this, and both kept on smiling in that distant, misty way they had even as he spoke. "It  _is_  Tuesday, you loony bint."

Child-Draco's brows furrowed at this, and his little mouth dropped into a scowl. Luna placed her free hand atop his head, a gentle shushing sound escaping her to stop him from speaking just yet. "Oh is it?" her younger self mused lightly. "Well, I suppose the Tower is properly yours then." She nodded as if confirming something to herself, and, heedless of his obviously violent mood, drifted right past him to make for the door.

She didn't get all the way there, as Draco's left hand lashed out viper-quick and caught her by the elbow. That Luna looked up at him calmly, a veiled question in silvery eyes, but for the longest moment his own simply bore into them, searching for something. She hadn't known  _what_ , then, but now she was fairly certain that she did. Even this young Luna had recognized that he'd been weeping, but she'd also had the discretion not to let on that she knew. At last, whatever held his tongue released it, and he spoke low, but caustically, having regained some of his composure. " _Don't_  tell anyone what you saw here, Lovegood, or it'll be  _unpleasant_  for you."

The girl's eyes grew soft, but she nodded anyway, gaze flickering for the briefest moment to the exposed left arm. It was still pale, smooth, and unmarked then. He released her grudgingly, and the little boy's frown grew deeper. "I don't like him. He has my name, but he sounds like my father. " Grown Luna sighed softly.

"I know, Draco. But not everything is the way it seems. That boy there… he did some very bad things."

"So then why was she so nice to him?"

"Because… she wanted to be his friend, even then."

"Why would she want that?" He pulled a face, and she couldn't help but smile. It was almost funny, that he was still too innocent to understand how, in a way, this behavior was exactly what grew out of the way he'd been haughty to her earlier.

"Well, I suppose it's because she believed that, no matter how mean or cruel he was right then, there's some good in him somewhere, and that it deserves a chance to be looked after and grow the way his hate did."

"Maybe she's just stupid." Luna bit down on her lip, trying unsuccessfully to smother her smile.

"It has been suggested before. Many times in fact. I don't think that's it, though." She was spared the ordeal of looking for further ways to explain how she understood the unfortunate soul that sprouted from his very boy into that teenager and then the man he was today when the surroundings blurred again, much like her vision had earlier. The child beside her intook a breath sharply, tightening his grip on her hand and hugging her around the waist as their feet again left the ground. Unlike his older self from before, she did not feel his grip slacken, and had the feeling that wherever she was going this time, he was coming, too.

* * *

_Elsewhen_

The air around them settled, and they opened their eyes to find that they had not moved at all, at least spatially. Temporally appeared to be another matter; the light of evening falling over the stillness of the Tower. From where they stood, they could see only Dumbledore, haggard in appearance and clutching his blackened hand to his chest, his wand clasped tightly in the other.

"Who's that?" the boy beside her asked, and Luna had to swallow over the lump in her throat in order to answer. She could feel heat building behind her eyes, and privately pleaded with whomever was showing them these things not to make the young Draco watch this. She knew, however, that it was something they needed to see, and she would not shrink back from it.

"That," she answered softly, "is one of the greatest wizards who ever lived."

Draco scoffed. "That old man? He's crippled and he looks tired and weak. Salazar Slytherin was the greatest wizard who ever—" He cut off his words abruptly when Luna leveled a stern gaze upon him, pursing her lips.

"Power is not the only thing that matters, Draco. This man loved the world so much, loved even his enemies so much, that he was willing to die to save them all." Luna knew that she viewed Dumbledore and his actions through very rose-tinted lenses; many of the things he'd done for his cause were questionable at best. But he, a good man at his heart, was willing to do them, to take the blame for them, so that other people wouldn't have to. She admired the same quality in Severus.

He might have replied, but she hushed him with a hand on his shoulder, just as his counterpart again entered the scene. They were for some reason unable to hear the words being spoken, and watched a pantomime of what had been, the expressions of agony and conflict contorting older Draco's face and his shame flushing it pink. Younger Draco set his jaw and looked angry when his future self pulled a wand on the old man, and from there he only seemed to grow more and more confused as the rest of the scene played out. She tried to place her hand over his eyes when Snape dealt the curse, but he pushed it away with surprising strength.

"He was going to kill that man! Why?" he demanded of Luna, curling his little hands into fists. She turned him by moving his shoulders, and crouched in front of him, one of her palms resting on each.

"Because he was a very sad, lonely boy, Draco. He believed some horrible lies, and wanted to do bad things in service of those lies. But in the end, he could never quite do it. He could never commit himself to those delusions, and he suffered for it. Other people suffered, too, because he couldn't commit himself to doing the right thing, either." A shiver wracked her frame, her body remembering what her mind strove always to put aside. Bellatrix Lestrange and the Carrows had held no such reservations, nor had Voldemort or Greyback. She would know.

"So he's a coward and a monster," little Draco asserted forcefully, and Luna felt something shift within the dream.

"No," she murmured softly, drawing him into her arms and hugging him close. "Never a monster."

His arms, locked in place at his sides, loosened, and then wrapped tentatively around her back. "…I'm not brave," he whispered into her neck, his child's voice tremulous with the effort to hold back thick emotion. "I'm not good."

Pulling back, Luna ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, smiling sadly. "I know," she replied simply. "But you  _could_  be. I still believe in you, Draco, and nothing you can show me here is going to change that."

Child-Draco's eyes went wide, and the dream world shattered, literally fragmenting into millions of tiny pieces and falling down around her. His arm in her hand crumbled to a fine powder and drifted away on some unseen, unfelt breeze. Her fingertips wavered, and she could sense herself being literally  _unmade_ , her ashes following his dust into the wind.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, The Waking World_

Draco woke first, his eyelids cracking open almost painfully. He could recall fragments, pieces of what had happened. The venom, then sudden relief, Lovegood looking down at him from above. The feeling of being embraced, like his mother used to do in his childhood when he'd been particularly upset. Only… he didn't think it had been his mother. Words, he remembered words.

_I'm not brave. I'm not good._

_I know. But you could be._

_I believe in you._

Draco swallowed hard, sitting up against the chaise. He felt…  _cold_ , all over, except for one of his palms, which was pleasantly warm—

He glanced down at where one of his pale, long-fingered hands was entwined with a much smaller one. Slowly, his eyes followed the length of the arm to which it was attached, eventually reaching the somnolent expression of Luna Lovegood. She looked…  _serene_. She normally looked like that, of course, but in sleep, there was something decidedly different about her. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but—

"So you're awake," the voice was soft, but Draco started, wrenching his hand from Lovegood's and causing her to stir faintly. Glancing up, he was met with the eminently-neutral expression of Severus, who reclined still in the chair Draco had last seen him in. His godfather's obsidian eyes flickered downwards, and something in his expression wavered just slightly, a hint of a feeling both softer than usual and troubled appearing for the briefest of moments before it vanished like so much smoke. If Draco hadn't known Severus so well, he would have missed it completely.

Draco didn't see the need to dignify the comment with a reply, instead testing his ability to stand, surprised when he managed it not only with no trouble, but feeling better than he had in… well…  _ever_. His entire body felt alive, as though some kind of vital force were tingling just underneath his skin. Severus seemed to notice, and scrutinized his former pupil closely for a moment, eyes widening perceptibly. He was opening his mouth to say something when a small noise from Lovegood drew both men's attention.

She stirred again, opening her eyes blearily and blinking several times. She caught sight of Draco first, and smiled brightly. He was caught strangely off-guard by the action, and his heart made an irregular thump in his chest, as it would if he'd been snuck up on by something and then become suddenly aware of it. "You're awake. That's good. We should test your magic, then."

Her words were sensible (surprisingly enough), and he nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. He was in a strange state at the moment, but it was not at all unpleasant. Withdrawing his wand from his robes, Draco took aim at a cluster of practice dummies, pointing well away from the other people in the room. He stared with a basic spell.

" _Bombarda_!" Something inside him shifted, and he was sure he could  _feel_  the expulsion of magic in a way he never had before. Which was why he knew something had gone wrong moments before his wand exploded, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions. Severus and Luna both shielded themselves, and save for the light clattering of slivers of wood raining down on the stone floor, all was silent.

"Well," Lovegood broke in lightly. "That was unexpected."


	10. Chapter Nine: Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some paths converge, and some sparks fly.

_The Daily Prophet, London Office_

Pansy Parkinson frowned, her eyebrows drawing together in a way that created a crease between them. Her mother would have hated that, would have told her that if she wasn't careful, she'd end up with permanent wrinkles that way.

Pansy thought her mother could sod off, and take her irritating plans for her daughter's future with her.

Heaving a sigh, the young woman jammed her quill into its inkwell with rather more force than was necessary and pushed back in her chair, the bespelled contraption taking her to a filing cabinet in the corner of her dinky office. A flick of her wand opened the bottom drawer and retrieved several stock images of some of the wizarding world's most rich and famous. A little doctoring, and somebody would be having an affair or gaining too much weight, and she'd have the last two columns on her spread filled. Another day, another outrageous lie.

Truthfully, she hated her job. She'd never worked all that hard in school, too concerned with socializing and asserting her dominance over other students (not to mention attempting to become a permanent fixture on Draco Malfoy's arm, which was cringeworthy in hindsight), and she was paying for it now, in a way. Instead of the serious career in investigative journalism she'd been after, she wrote for the gossip section of the  _Daily Prophet_ , and while she was rather good at it (apparently, wicked lies were not something you ever  _forgot_  how to tell), it wasn't anything near what she wanted.

The story splashed all over all the headlines these days was about those murders, and she wanted to be writing about that. Serious, important stuff that required real intelligence and carried the small element of risk, of  _danger_ , that she craved these days. Even the increasing tension between the British and French ministries (apparently the result of the French Minister's sometimes-draconian approach to the law) was secondary to that one. Certainly nothing she ever wrote was that significant.

Sighing, Pansy rifled through the pictures, examining the photos of smiling, beautiful people and trying to think of something horrendous to say about one or two of them. She reached one of Draco himself and snorted softly. Apparently, someone had caught him in one of his worse moods; the sneer he'd had since Hogwarts was now almost terrifying, in a way, but she knew better than to take him too seriously. Draco wasn't really upset until he got quiet and chilly—that much, she knew firsthand. She wondered how he was doing—it had been a few months since her last visit, given her insane schedule. She was glad it was a friendship she'd been able to preserve, even after all that had happened. Sending that one back to the cabinet, she picked two others at random, huffing a short laugh when she wound up with two businessmen that she knew despised each other. A fight over a woman? No, that was trite. An affair, both wives devastated. Oh yes, that would do nicely.

* * *

_Library of Alexandria, Librarian Granger's Office_

Intent over her translations, Hermione savored the peace and quiet that came with a day of work. Nestled comfortably in a cross-legged position on her chair, she scratched away furiously with her quill, taking notes with rapidity in an often-unsuccessful effort to keep up with the speed of her thoughts. Piles of books rested haphazardly on either side of her narrowed writing space, dominating the surface area of her desk in the same way their contents dominated her thoughts.

So focused was she on the task before her that she did not notice the approach of another person until his shadow fell over her writing. Startled, the archivist glanced up sharply, and forgot to dim the evidence of her pleasure at seeing the face that came into view. "Ah, Professor Snape!" She smiled brightly, gesturing for him to be seated, then looking back down for long enough to finish her sentence before setting her work to the side. Hastily, she grabbed her wand and waved it, sending the books to one corner of the room so as to be able to talk properly, without a mountain of leather and vellum blocking the way.

"Did you get that thing with Malfoy sorted out?" She wasn't really sure what had transpired; all he'd revealed to her was that Draco was hit with a curse that somehow blocked his ability to use magic. How anyone was supposed to fix that without knowing exactly what it was perplexed her, but she presumed she did not have all the details.

"In a manner of speaking," Severus replied, and she searched his face for any hint as to what he'd meant. At first, she thought she'd turned up nothing (as was usual), but then something flickered behind his eyes, like a shadow passing over them, and her brows drew together. He seemed…  _troubled_  by something, and she wanted to remedy that. It was in her nature, perhaps.

Pursing her lips, Hermione decided delaying her news would do nobody any good. "I think… I may have some information that will help." She paused, wetting her lips with her tongue. Severus was looking at her expectantly, and she found that she really,  _really_  wanted this to be of use. "That summons I received, on the same day you got yours, it was from the Auror's Office. Ron wrote to me, asking me to come in and take a look at something."

Snape's eyes narrowed; she found that she could not discern what was meant by this and hoped he didn't think her irrelevant. "I expect that it had something to do with the muggle murders," he put in, his tone neutral. She nodded in reply, lacing her fingers together and placing her hands atop the desk.

"Not just muggles anymore." She'd read the papers; Astoria Greengrass was the most recent victim, which meant that witches could be presumed to be in just as much danger. Not that that made much of a difference; given the locations of the bodies, it was a case for magical authorities either way. "And there's something about the crimes that might interest you."

She watched him for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. At first, there was simply nothing, then he moved, just slightly, faintly inclining his head, and she took that to mean she could continue. "I'm not… I don't know how much you're allowed to know about what the Aurors do…" Hermione hesitated. She really wanted to tell him everything she thought he needed to know, but not if doing so would be breaking some confidentiality. For all she knew, Harry and Ron had no idea Severus was even  _alive_ , let alone working as an Unspeakable.

"Potter is aware of it," he said, as though reading her thoughts. The thought that he very much  _could_  do so if he wanted to was not comforting. "And my level of clearance on matters of Ministry importance is much higher than his." The wizard steepled his fingers in front of his collarbones, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair.

Hermione exhaled softly, relieved. "Good. In that case, I can show you." Waving her wand, she summoned a folder, from which she pulled a photograph, showing the moving Ouroboros with the script beneath it. "This was found at one of the scenes," she explained quietly, handing him the photo. "The text beneath it is in Sanskrit. I just finished translating it a while ago. The words are an excerpt from the Bhagavad-Gita, a holy text of the Hindu religion."

Severus, who had been steadily examining the picture before him, brows drawn together in thought, looked up at her, catching her eye with an intensity in his that had her heart skipping a beat and thumping irregularly in her chest. Telling herself that this was most certainly not the time for that, Hermione regained control of her breathing in just enough time for him to ask a question. "And what, exactly, does it say?"

"They're words spoken by Krishna, avatar of the god Vishnu," she replied steadily. " _'Now, I am become death, shatterer of worlds.'_ " Her tone was grave, and she glanced down at the image in his hands with something approaching trepidation.

"And the fact that these words, the image, and what I told you all point in the direction of cataclysmic events led you to believe them connected," Snape mused softly, placing the photo back on her desk.

"Yes," Hermione replied. "Additionally, the fragmentary phrase you gave me and the Ouroboros are both of Old Norse origin, which would have been enough on its own. The mythologies are certainly being mixed, but there's no mistaking that all the references are to the same thing."

"The end of the world," Severus supplied, a small smirk playing over his features. Hermoine's eyes went wide, and she immediately looked down. That… was absurdly attractive. It wasn't a smile, not really, and it barely even qualified as a  _smirk_ , truth be told, but it and the glint to his void-black eyes bespoke a kind of danger she'd not dallied with in many years. It was one that, sometimes, she was willing to admit she missed. "How very presumptuous."

She swallowed, forming her words carefully so as not to betray her unease. "So it seems, but arrogant or not, there's likely a connection there. I think it might be best if you brought Malfoy's case to the attention of the Auror Office, perhaps pooled your resources. I'd be willing to help in any way I can, of course," she added hastily, hoping she didn't sound overeager. These were murders and they were terrible, there was no denying that.

There was  _also_  no denying that the possibility of investigating them, of putting her wit to work when the stakes were incredibly high, alongside someone with a mind like his, was appealing to her for more than one reason.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Hidden Chamber_

"Try again, Draco," Luna urged, watching the young man in question intently. Her fingers toyed absently with her wand, a piece of extraordinary craftsmanship, made for her as a personal gift from Mister Ollivander. The warm hue of the black walnut wood was reflected in the way it felt in her hands—always giving off a slight heat. The whimsical tulip-like design of the handle was a rather lovely touch, she thought. A kindness, from a friend. She hadn't been able to save him, nor he her, but they had at least been able to share in their suffering.

Right now, though, she was quietly confident she would be able to achieve more than that. More than willing to share Draco's suffering, she also held out hope that he could be saved. Not that she thought herself the one to do it; one thing Luna had learned was that, when it came down to it, human beings had to be willing to save themselves, or no amount of help from anyone else would manage it. In order to change his life for the better, to divest himself of the lingering guilt and hatred and rage that still simmered beneath his skin and emerge on the other side of it, Draco would first have to come to believe that he was both worthy and capable of such a metamorphosis. She held no illusions that the change would be painless or simple or short.

But they could certainly start by figuring out this peculiar change in his magic. She watched the satisfied half-smile spread over his lips, and he nodded, holding out a hand and incanting. The expression turned her own a little wistful—she wondered what he looked like when he really smiled. She should like to see it, some day. The candelabra levitated from the table, nearly hitting the ceiling of the stone chamber before he reduced his power output, leveling off the ascent and bringing it back down to eye-height.

After his wand had exploded, Draco's expression had closed off, and he'd largely refused to speak for several hours, during which Snape had left, shooting his protégé a withering glare, which was ignored. As soon as the former Potions Professor had vacated the premises, Draco's posture had relaxed, and he'd slumped into his seat, strain showing in the taut lines of his face. Luna was almost certain he'd forgotten she was there, for he'd tried very hard not to present himself as vulnerable to her in the past, and that was exactly how he'd seemed in that moment. For a instant, the confident, capable, considerably arrogant wizard had faded away, and she could have sworn she was staring at the eleven-year-old boy trying so hard to be what he was expected to be.

She'd stood, and relocated herself so she was sitting next to him, her right knee just touching his left. He'd shot her a halfhearted glare, but not protested beyond that. For a few moments, they were completely silent, and that didn't change when she laid her hand over his, interlacing their fingers and squeezing gently. Both stared at the wall straight ahead, neither sharing their particular thoughts with the other. He hadn't squeezed back, hadn't so much as acknowledged her action, but neither did he tear his hand away and spit venom at her, as she would have expected mere weeks ago. The progress pleased her, but she gave no indication of it.

Exactly how long they were sitting like that, neither of them could recall, too lost to their ruminations to accurately gauge. At length, Luna's voice broke the silence. "Try your magic without a wand."

He'd stiffened beside her, and she could tell he was struggling with his instinct to snap at her. In the end, she suspected his curiosity won. "If I can't use magic  _with_  a wand, why would I be able to manage  _without_  one, Lovegood?" His tone was bitter, with traces of sadness coloring the edges a melancholy blue.

Luna ventured a hypothesis. "A wand is a conduit, a magnifier of our natural magic. I think that, in your current state, you don't need one. In fact, having one might be counterproductive." She'd looked at him with her othersight, only to note that the green veins were thicker, brighter, but reordered. It was an arrangement that resembled tree roots more than threads like most people had, and there seemed to be something nearly  _primal_  about it. It was no more than an intuition, but she felt that it was true all the same.

He'd been as skeptical as he always was, but she'd just smiled and waited, and as she expected, he'd grudgingly indulged her, standing and attempting a levitation spell on one of her transfigured candle-holders. It had shot upwards with far too much force, much as a first-year attempt might do, but quite likely for different reasons. The silver metalwork smashed on the ceiling, but aside from a dent, it remained intact, and Draco was able to lower it back to the floor much more gently. From there, she'd urged him to try again, and now here they were, she watching with understated satisfaction as he seemed to get the hang of it.

Draco released the spell, and turned to Luna, his expression cautiously optimistic. She marveled at the openness of it, and decided he wasn't aware of it himself, too caught up in newfound success to notice. Her lips slanted upwards, and she nodded as if in reassurance. "I think we've figured it out. It might take a little more practice, but I'm sure you'll be back to working form in no time."

* * *

_Malfoy Manor, Grounds_

Well, this was awkward. Harry's and Ron's boots crunched too loudly on the driveway of Malfoy Manor, the ascent somehow more looming and longer now than it had ever been before.

Not that they made a habit of visiting, of course.

Still, it was maybe a bit strange that the one time Harry wasn't absolutely convinced of Malfoy's guilt was the time he felt most nervous about accusing him. Before, he'd have been concerned that he might get a hex thrown in his face, but then this was maybe the case now, too. It wasn't every day one had to bring an Unspeakable in for questioning, especially one who also happened to be your former school rival and a one-time Death Eater.

Glancing over at Ron, Harry noted that his expression was set, staring straight ahead with determination. He also observed that it was a façade; Ron was feeling just as uncomfortable with this as he was. His best friend didn't know what Harry knew—Ron's clearance level wasn't high enough to be briefed about Malfoy or Snape, though Harry wondered if it might not have to be eventually. Either way, he shook his head and raised the silver knocker on the door, rapping four times in sharp succession, then stepping back, gripping the wand in the forearm holster inside his sleeve for the briefest moment before he consciously relaxed. When things came to their worst conclusions, he liked to have the wand with him, but he truly didn't need it. Wandless magic was a prerequisite for certain ranks in the Auror office, and he'd learned it a couple years ago. It always felt  _uncomfortable_ , somehow, but he could do it if he had to.

The door cracked open, a house-elf looking up at the both of them with wide, round eyes. Apparently, they were recognized, or at least he was, because the elf swallowed audibly. Deciding to move through the situation as quickly as possible, Harry spoke. "Aurors Potter and Weasley. We're here to see Mister Draco Malfoy."

The elf blinked, then nodded. "Please follow me. I will fetch young Master Malfoy."

They were led into a receiving room of some kind, not any of the ones Harry had been into before. The décor was very much in keeping with the rest of the manor: it practically screamed old money and good taste. And Slytherin, as the silvers and greens were reminding him. He wondered if every room in the house had the same scheme. It would be a little ridiculous, wouldn't it? Not every room in his flat was red and gold.

There was the sound of soft footsteps on the carpet, and Harry turned to face the door at the same time as Ron did. Draco Malfoy stood in the frame, eyes narrowed and assessing for a long moment before he settled against it, crossing his arms over his chest and venturing no further into the space. He was trapping them, and the look he shot Harry assured the Chief Auror that he was aware of it. "Potter, Weasley. To what do I owe the…  _pleasure_  of your company?" He sneered, and Ron took the bait almost immediately.

"We're not here because we want to be,  _Malfoy_ , but some of us have real jobs. And the Auror's office needs to talk to your git self, so take your superior attitude and—"  
"Ron." Harry cut off his friend with a warning glance. It was probably to be expected; Ron hadn't interacted with Malfoy in… well, Harry actually wasn't sure. It might well be the day his family left the battlefield at Hogwarts. He  _did_  read the  _Prophet_  though, which explained the 'real job' comment.

Harry sighed. He and Malfoy weren't exactly cordial, either, but they'd moved past the point where their mutual disdain got in the way of their jobs. Ron's reaction was understandable, but counterproductive. Luckily, he seemed to sense this and stopped talking, settling for glowering at their old school nemesis like he wanted to throttle him.  
"Malfoy, we need to bring you in for questioning." He and his former rival exchanged a brief look, in which Harry attempted to convey that he could keep his cover if he wished. "It's about Astoria Greengrass."

Draco's eyebrows drew together. "Astoria? What about her?" He looked slightly perplexed, which Harry interpreted as a good sign.

"Don't act like you don't know," Ron replied with heat. "Her murder's been all over the papers."

Rather than the angry retort Harry was expecting, Malfoy's face contracted into a picture of shock, before he quickly smoothed it over. "I haven't been paying attention to the papers in the last few weeks," he replied, almost as if he had nothing else to say.

Ron looked like he was about to respond, when the conversation was interrupted by a feminine voice. "Draco? There you are. I thought the Nargles had—" Draco made a sharp gesture that Harry couldn't quite see, and the voice fell silent.

Not that it helped matters much; Harry and Ron both knew the voice very well. "Luna?" they said as one.

Upon hearing her name, Luna poked her head into the room, taking advantage of Draco's angle to step over his legs and breeze in, apparently unaware of the thick tension coating the atmosphere. She beamed at the both of them. "Harry, Ronald! It's lovely to see you. Will you be staying for tea?"

Ron's jaw worked uselessly for a few seconds. Presumably, he was having just as much difficulty processing the situation as Harry was. What in Merlin's name was Luna doing in Draco Malfoy's house, calling him by his first name and offering them tea as though she lived here? Harry's eyes made their way to Draco, who looked slightly at a loss. The blond man rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and two fingers, and there was something ever-so-slightly  _off_  about the situation, but Harry was far too busy puzzling to figure out what.

Ron's face had gone from angry to positively  _thunderous_ , and Harry knew he was reaching the only conclusion he could with the information available to him: a notorious club-hopping playboy with more money than sense has a young woman in his home who isn't related to him, and isn't known to be a friend or associate of his? Chances weren't good that they were  _just_  friends. Harry knew a little more, and so he didn't necessarily believe what Ron did, but hell if he knew what was actually going on.

Luna, as always, seemed to have no idea what was happening around her. "Ronald, what's wrong? You seem a bit red in the face. Kneazle got your tongue?" She tilted her head to one side and drifted over to Ron, placing the back of one pale hand on his forehead and clicking her tongue. "You've been working too many hours again," she concluded sadly, casting a glance at Harry and doubtlessly concluding the same about him. "I already have one full-time patient, I'm not sure I could keep up with three."

Just like that, the tension shattered, Harry and Ron both seizing the clue she'd provided them with all their might. Much, much easier to believe that Luna was here for a medical condition one of the Malfoys had than that she and Draco were…  _involved_. Ron's shoulders eased, and he gently removed her hand from his head. "S'all right, Luna. We're fine."

She smiled brightly again, and Harry felt himself relax as well. From the corner of his eye, he noted that Malfoy did the same, regaining his passive neutrality, except… his eyes never did leave the mediwitch in the room. Harry's own narrowed slightly behind his glasses, and he cleared his throat, returning everyone's attention to him. "Actually, Luna, we're here to bring Malfoy in for questioning. Astoria Greengrass is dead, and he was her last known boyfriend." Her expression fell into a troubled frown, and she glanced at the blond wizard, who nodded curtly.

"Oh. So no tea, then?"

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

The Auror's office was packed, the gofers and more ranked members alike running about as though they were fueled exclusively by pepper-up and coffee. Draco wrinkled his nose slightly in distaste; even at their most desperate, the Unspeakables were much more in control of themselves and their surroundings, but he made no mention of this, assuming that his disdain would be treated as everyday arrogance, which, if the wilting look Weasley shot him was anything to go by, was a good assumption.

Potter knew the details of his arrangement, which was likely why he'd done Draco the professional courtesy of showing up himself. Were it anyone else, Draco probably would have outright refused to come until they showed up with the proper paperwork, and that would have been a disaster for both departments. As it was, he'd displayed his displeasure in a number of less-than-subtle ways already, and he could tell that Potter's refusal to get righteous with him was both irritating and confusing to Weasley.

A slight pressure on his arm drew his attention to Lovegood, and he looked down at her beside him. She shook her head minutely, and he scowled, but stopped trying to bait the least-intelligent of the Golden Trio. It wasn't like Weasley was much of an intellectual challenge, he supposed. The effort to rile him up, while hardly exhausting, probably wasn't worth it, so while part of him rankled that she thought she could tell him what to do, the other part saw the sense in not making this an even bigger scene than it already was, and quelled the ever-present desire to barb a former Gryffindor.

She smiled at him upon noting his acquiescence, and he found himself pleased by this. Perhaps it was— _no_. He didn't like where that thought was going, and stomped it out abruptly.

Unfortunately, his efforts to keep a low-ish profile by not provoking incompetents came to a screeching halt, and the screeching part was literal. Some woman spotted him from across the room and wailed, pointing a finger at him dramatically. "That's him! That's the man Astoria left with!" The grey-haired Auror with the harpy shushed her, but the damage had already been done, and all eyes swung to them.

"Fuck," he heard Potter mutter under his breath, and privately, Draco rather agreed. Weasley, contrary to Draco's expectations, did not look particularly pleased with the development and scowled harder, if indeed that were possible.

"Who the hell is that woman, Potter?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. She gasped a bit and averted her gaze, but that wasn't about to stop him. Were it not for the hand that moved to encircle his wrist, and the accompanying burst of warm energy travelling up his arm, he might have yelled back across the room at her. It wouldn't have been terribly out of character for his public identity. Instead, he found the werewithal to smooth his face over and simply level the rest of the room with an imperious, haughty sneer, which had the effect of averting the rest of the gazes.

"Friend of the victim.” Potter paused a moment, grimacing. “Right. Well. Malfoy, if you'll follow me. Ron, please put Luna in interview room two and get her anything she needs." Potter shot Lovegood an apologetic look, but she did not protest, simply shrugging thin shoulders and releasing Draco's wrist, following in Weasley's wake while Potter led the Malfoy heir to not an interview room, but an office.

Gesturing Draco in before following, Potter shut the door and muttered a charm of some kind. "Go ahead and sit, Malfoy." His tone was more weary than unfriendly, but Draco wasn't buying it.

"No thanks, Potter. I'll stand."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Suit yourself. I, however, will be sitting." He sank down into the chair behind a walnut desk with a short sigh. "Coffee?" When Draco shook his head, Potter pushed his glasses up his nose and continued. "Obviously, we can't let your identity out. I'd intended to just bring you here and go through the motions, since Astoria was your ex-girlfriend, but her friend's identification is problematic." The young man raked a hand through his already mussed hair, and Draco was not oblivious to the fact that he'd clearly gone quite some time without proper sleep.

"When was the murder committed?" Draco asked, and for all the concern in his tone, he might have been speaking about the weather.

That dropped Potter's mouth into a scowl. "Look, Malfoy, I know you're not exactly about friendship or happiness or whatever, but don't you even care that she's dead? That kind of attitude won't go over well if this goes public, you know."

It was Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "I'm sorry, should I be weeping? She is—was—just another woman at this point. I'm not  _happy_  that she's dead, if that's what you're implying, but I hadn't even spoken to her in years." He was also more used to death than he'd care to admit. A certain amount of indifference was necessary.

The Chief Auror still looked unimpressed, and though he probably knew enough to read between the lines of his statement, he was apparently feeling uncharitable at the moment, because his expression hardened. "And what about Luna, Malfoy? Is she _just another woman_ , too? Making her a notch on your bedpost would be a bad idea."

Draco was admittedly taken aback by the question, though perhaps he should not have been. Lovegood's friendship with Potter and the Weasels was a well-known fact. It was a surprise to him that he found her far less odious and annoying than any of them. When that had happened, he wasn't sure. "Keep your knickers on, Potter; I haven't touched her." And just because this line of questioning was irritating, he gave his voice a sly cadence, one that allowed a ' _yet_ ' to be tacked onto the sentence by the imaginative listener.

"Then what is she doing at your house?" His interrogator seemed unwilling to let the topic drop.

"Bit off-topic, aren't we?" Draco replied with a raised eyebrow. "She's there on Unspeakables business, if you really must know. Anything more than that is above your clearance level, Potter." He did so enjoy pulling that card on the bespectacled man in front of him.

"Fine," Potter replied through his teeth. "…You wanted to know about the murder?" Draco nodded, and the black-haired man provided him with a date and time. Draco thought about it, and then nodded succinctly.

"She was with me then. Have Weasley ask her about it." His expression was perhaps a little more smug than the situation called for, but undoubtedly, the revelation of exactly how much time their precious friend was spending with  _him_  these days would vex them horribly, something that Draco was quite certain he'd enjoy.

"Polyjuice?" Potter wondered out loud, and Draco shrugged.

"Probably. I'd start your investigation with people who have access to my hair."

"Such as…?"

Draco gave it some thought. "I doubt you have to worry about my parents, or Lovegood. That leaves Severus, Lupin, Greengrass, a few of my more…  _aggressive_  recent partners—don't ask, I couldn't give you names because I usually don't know—and anyone with access to the Department of Mysteries storeroom; they keep all kinds of things in there, including certain relevant samples from the Unspeakables. That's technically above your clearance level, too, but we'll pretend it isn't."

"That's a lot of people," Potter replied after a moment.

"What can I say? I'm an important man," Draco replied easily. "Are we done here?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Ron might be a bit longer with Luna, though." The other man sounded like he really wasn't comfortable with the whole situation, but Draco couldn't have cared less about that if he'd tried.

"Mm, I think not," he replied, disabling the lock charm and opening the door without another word. He made a beeline for interview room two. He had no desire to linger, and as soon as Lovegood provided his alibi, they were both leaving, Weasley's feelings on the matter be damned.


	11. Chapter Ten: Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a task force and a tomb raid.

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

Late summer transitioned into early autumn, and with the gradual change came more murders. They continued to dominate the headlines, pushing back just about any other kind of news. Wonky portkeys to France and Italy and celebrity gossip were simply unimportant when stacked against a growing threat to Britain's young witches. Luna Lovegood moved out of Malfoy Manor and into Spinner's End, and now simply made almost-daily visits to check on Draco, who was once again cleared for duty with the Department of Mysteries. Severus Snape took frequent trips to Alexandria, but discussed his apparent newfound fondness for the Egyptian sun with nobody. Harry had forced his department to slow down and start getting regular rest again—it was clear that whatever else might be the case, this was no short-term affair. The Aurors were going to be digging their heels in for the long haul, and they needed to remain at their best.

He was, admittedly, not terribly surprised when the Minister of Magic contacted him about it, but he certainly had not expected the level of confidentiality of the notice. His clearance level barely let him into the contents of his own mail, if the warding charms on this were anything to go by, and he had more than most cabinet members, less only than Shacklebolt's inner circle and the Unspeakables themselves. It was with a healthy dose of trepidation that Harry tore open the heavy, off-white envelope, scanning over the parchment before tossing it onto his desk and raking both hands through his dark hair, leaning back in his chair to stare at his ceiling tiles.

_Shit_. It wasn't really all that shocking that the Minister had decided to convene a task force, but that didn't mean it was good news, either. Someone, somewhere, had discovered something new, something that mandated a gathering of this kind, and he wasn't really all that certain he wanted to know what that something was. The same oppressive weight that he was used to settled even more solidly on his shoulders, but he ignored the feeling.

_Buck up, Harry; you've dealt with worse._  Nodding resolutely to himself, Harry stepped out of his office and went to find Ron. Shacklebolt had asked him to bring along one person he trusted for appointment to the task force, and there was nobody better to have at your side when jumping into the unknown than Ronald Weasley. Harry firmly and completely believed this, and the hypothesis had been field-tested more times than he cared to count.

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Mysteries, Conference Room B_

Snape glanced around the room. It was relatively large, dominated by a circular, polished walnut table with chairs arranged about it, many of which were presently filled by quite the assortment of people. At the front of the room sat the Minister of Magic himself, and next to him was his personal secretary and the only person he trusted to know what was going on, an elderly woman by the name of Janet Wiggins. She was meticulously keeping a coded dictation of the meeting, which would probably be destroyed shortly afterwards, but was necessary now all the same.

Severus himself was on the right side of the table, about ninety degrees from Shacklebolt. Beside him was Draco, currently occupied in some form of juvenile glaring contest with the younger of the room's two Weasleys. Ronald had been less-than-pleased to find out that the Malfoy heir was actually an Unspeakable, though he seemed a bit more reserved on the matter of Snape's own presence. The one time Severus had glanced over after the initial elucidation had been done, Mister Weasley had looked guarded, wary, but not angry or hateful as he did when Draco drew his attention afterward. Severus cared not for the regard of others, but at the very least he hadn't had to go to the irritating length of explaining himself—Mister Potter had taken over that task with little hesitation.

Miss Granger was seated nearby them, alongside Miss Lovegood, who appeared to be counting…  _something_  on the ceiling. Severus knew better than to take the endeavor at face value, though he did not doubt that she was doing so. She'd be able to produce some sort of count if asked, but she did not set herself to such trivial tasks for their own sake. He understood Xenophilius enough to know this.

The elder Weasley brother—Bill, the one who'd gone into curse-breaking—and his apprentice and partner Blaise Zabini were closest to the Minister on the left side, as they'd required extra briefing and Unbreakable Vows before being brought up-to-date on the situation. Beside them was a man in what Severus guessed was his late twenties: Raphael Walsh, youngest member of Kingsley's cabinet and the Minister's personal agent. Snape understood the job to involve subterfuge, bodyguarding, and politics in equal measure. Mister Walsh certainly appeared suited for it—he observed the entire room with wary blue eyes, and stood almost as tall as Draco, as broad as either of the Weasleys, who were themselves a bit wider across the shoulders than anyone save Shacklebolt himself.

The two remaining people in the room were both more-or-less in their middle age: one, he recognized as Hilde Vanderpool, a well-respected member of the research branch in the Department of Mysteries. She seemed more at ease than most, her black robes neatly-pressed and her brown hair secured tidily into a bun at the nape of her neck. Severus respected her professionalism; she was one of the few people who, like him, held a full Mastery in the potions trade. The man seated beside her wore the white and light-blue robes of a staff member at St. Mungo's, and seemed to be rather nervous. Considering the combined fame of all the people in this room, Snape was hardly surprised. He kept polishing his horn-rimmed spectacles and replacing them over the bridge of his nose, looking out at the rest of them with doleful brown eyes. He must be the emergency medic Severus had suggested bringing on to the team, though he hadn't recommended anyone in particular.

Once everyone was fully settled, Shacklebolt cleared his throat for attention, and all eyes were immediately settled on the Minister. "Thank you all for coming," he said, taking a moment to make eye contact with each of them. "As some of you have doubtless discovered quite to your shock, there are more layers to this whole thing than I'm frankly sure I could unravel. But that's why we're holding this meeting, to get everyone on the same page. A few weeks ago, Mister Snape and I had a meeting about many of the things you're all about to hear, and decided that a team should be assembled to deal with certain events. Per his suggestions and with some last minute additions—" here he nodded to Bill, Blaise, and Raphael—"we're at last ready to begin. Miss Granger, if you would be so kind?"

The young woman in question stood, smoothing down her deep red robes rather unnecessarily. It did not hide the tremor in her hands from Severus, and he wondered why she might be having stage fright now. This was the kind of thing she'd reveled in at Hogwarts—flaunting her knowledge before others. She made eye contact with him, and he recognized her look as vaguely searching. Unsure what precisely she wanted from him, Severus simply inclined his head minutely. She knew the information—this anxiety was pointless.

She smiled then, and took a deep breath. "Right. I've been brought up to speed on everything we all need to know, and I'm going to run through it now, to make sure we're all in the same place." Waving her wand, she caused several images to appear on the blank wall behind her. "For those of you who don't know, the string of murders on young witches has been picking up in the last month or so, and there have been three new victims in that time. While the identities and locations of the bodies have been released to the public, many of the details of the cases haven't."

She paused; the images vanished and were replaced with several photos of the deceased women, all with bloody script cut into their backs. "These cuts seem to be more or less random, but Mister Weasley and Mister Zabini have confirmed that they're curse-marks, likely the result of very old curses no longer in the conventional literature on the subject. As the bodies grow more recent, the marks seem to change—the last few look almost as though they approximate words or images. My guess is that the killer is intentionally trying to do this, to write messages on the bodies, but the curse is either imperfectly reconstructed, or else it… gets away from him." There was another small pause as she allowed that to sink in. Severus understood what she was getting at, and from the looks on the faces around the table, so did nearly everyone else. Even if the curse were designed to imprint text, it would require quite a lot of concentration to keep it up, almost like holding two or three spells at once. In the case that the killings brought some particularly-strong emotion to the surface of the person's psyche, that would be impossible.

"Bloody hell, you're saying he  _gets off_  on this?" The younger Weasley's tone was filled with revulsion. Not unduly, Severus noted.

"That's…  _possible_ ," Miss Granger replied, looking slightly ill. Her hands gripped the edge of the table until she was white-knuckled, but one of them was shortly covered by Miss Lovegood's, and the tension eased just slightly. "It's also possible that it just makes him very angry, perhaps, or reminds him of something he hates. Either way, it means he isn't succeeding in turning the curse-marks into anything legible."

"Which explains this," she continued, flicking her wand again until the image she'd originally shown him, the Ouroboros and text, replaced the others. "This was left alongside one of the bodies, found in Diagon Alley. I was first brought into this case to decipher the wording. I discovered that it's a line from the Bhagavad Gita, and occurs at a point in which Krishna, the main figure in the text, takes on the form of the Destroyer."

"That's all well and good," Hilde broke in, her tone calm but not rude, "but it doesn't explain why the Aurors' Office and a few consultants couldn't manage the case without assistance from so many quarters?" It was inflected more as a question than anything, and she tilted her head sideways at Miss Granger.

"You're right," the younger witch agreed readily. "But there's more to it than that. Several months ago, on what was supposed to be a routine favor for the Aurors' Office, two Unspeakables were attacked by a cluster of wizards working for person or persons unknown. The attackers were put on the defensive, and made to retreat, but at that point, one of them used a previously-unknown spell. It broke through a multipurpose shield charm without difficulty. The parties involved were Mister Malfoy and Prof- Mister Snape, and until very recently, Malfoy was still suffering the effects of the hex."

"He still is," Miss Lovegood broke in softly. "The curse appears to have altered the way his body produces magic. The negative side-effects have been dealt with for the most part, and Draco is quite capable of using magic, but not in the same way." She glanced to Draco, who appeared angry that his condition had just been disclosed to a room full of people. The only evidence of this was a tightening of the muscles in his jaw, but the look she was giving him in return indicated that Snape was not the only one who had detected it.

"Fascinating," the male healer murmured. He looked like he was about to launch into a series of medical questions, but a warning look from Hilde stopped the tide before it had a chance to start, something that Severus was inwardly grateful for.

"At any rate, the hex wasn't in the Arcanum Latin that most of our spells are," Miss Granger pointed out. "After some consideration, Mister Snape and I were able to determine that it was in fact Old Norse, and the fragment of it that I was given contained a word for 'renewal' that is commonly part of the word for 'apocalypse.'"

"Ragnarök," Bill Weasley muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "That fits with the Ouroboros, now doesn't it?"

"That was my thought precisely, yes," the witch replied evenly. Severus didn't have to be a master of observation to note that the revelation had thrilled her, in a way. If he had his guess, chances were good that Miss Granger took quite a bit of satisfaction from an intellectual challenge like this one. He was much the same in this. "The fact that two of the last crime scenes contain Biblical references from the Book of Revelations is only making the connection stronger. My guess is, the killer is quite aware that he's mixing his mythologies, but the larger, connecting point is the one that he wants to push."

"But why hex Malfoy?" Harry asked. "That doesn't fit the pattern at all. And why leave all these cryptic clues? Horrible as it is, it's not like a serial killer can actually bring about the end of the world or anything."

"Those questions, Chief Auror Potter, are exactly what this task force was assembled to answer." Kingsley Shacklebolt broke into the conversation again for the first time since it had started. "As I mentioned, Severus came to me with a proposal for this group some weeks ago, but I've only just now been able to get the details worked out. Per his suggestions, we're prepared for several eventualities. For those of you who don't know each other: Mister Potter and Mister Weasley are from the Aurors' Office, Mister Snape and Mister Malfoy are from the Department of Mysteries Field Division, Ms. Vanderpool is from the Research Division with a specialization in potions and… less-than-light magics. Healer Thompson is one of St. Mungo's best trauma-care healers, and Healer Lovegood is, in addition to being a budding authority on experimental medicine and Old Magic, Mister Malfoy's attending physician. Mister Walsh is part of my personal security detail, and an excellent combatant and bodyguard. The elder Mister Weasley and Mister Zabini are both leading cursebreakers, but that's not the reason why they're presently here. Gentlemen?"

The two professionals now had everyone's curiosity, and it was Weasley who spoke. "Right, about that. We specialize in tomb curses these days, and we've been working on a very important recent discovery, disarming traps and curses on the way underground into this tomb. I won't bore you with the archaeological minutiae, but you should all know that Norse symbolism doesn't usually show up on the walls of Egyptian tombs." Zabini waved his wand with a lazy gesture, and the image on the wall changed again. There was a gasp from a few of the parties in the room, and Severus noted that Draco's eyes had gone wide.

There, on what appeared to be the sandstone wall of a tomb, was an image of a man, chained to a rock, a serpent towering above him.

"Oh dear," Miss Lovegood put in, and there were several nods of agreement. The imagery was no doubt to most of them evocative of a very dark period in their lives, when that serpent had come to represent Voldemort.

"What do you know? Looks like we're going tomb raiding," those words belonged to a flabbergasted Ronald Weasley, though they succeeded in little but wringing a few uncomfortable chuckles. Severus forced his face to remain impassive, but even he was feeling it—a cold tendril of anxiety at the pit of his stomach. This was showing hints of something far more complex than a mere killer on a self-indulgent tangent. It had 'conspiracy' written all over it, however juvenile the handwriting.

* * *

_Hogsmeade, England, a Field_

A day later, the same group of individuals had all had the opportunity, however short, to put their general affairs in order and prepare for departure to Egypt. As the tomb site had various protections around it to ward against apparation in and out of the premises (making matters fortunately more difficult for  _actual_  tomb robbers), they were going in by means of portkey.

Given the clandestine nature of their activities, all were instructed to meet in an unobtrusive location, not far outside of Hogsmeade village, though the location was hidden behind a ridge in the landscape, away from view of the small town.

The Monday morning dawned crisp and chill, and Draco resisted the urge to pull his cloak tighter about himself. He certainly wouldn't be needing it once they arrived in Egypt, but he didn't want to look suspiciously-underdressed in case he was somehow waylaid at any point along his journey. It was a subtle thing, and perhaps not one that everyone would notice or think twice about, but it was the bread and butter of his occupation, in a sense. Keeping secret things secret was a vital skill when one worked for a place called the Department of  _Mysteries_.

They'd all been instructed to stagger their arrivals, and approach the spot from different directions. He was scheduled to approach first, and immediately after him came Vanderpool, then Potter and Walsh, Weasley, Lovegood, Thompson, and Severus. The other Weasley, Blaise, and Granger already lived in Egypt and were arranging alternate transportation to the site.

Once everyone had arrived, there was a heartbeat of silence, then Vanderpool nodded to Snape, and all the rest fell into line, taking hold of the portkey, which was in this case a old bicycle wheel, a common-enough sight in places like this one. The seconds slowly ticked by as they waited for it to trigger, and Draco glanced absently around. Apparently, it was too early in the morning for Weasley to commence glaring, but plenty early for Lovegood to be smiling like a fool. He didn't return it, but she seemed undaunted by this.

The portkey activated, and the world went spinning away from beneath them.

* * *

_Egypt, Valley of the Kings, Site A3-002_

"Ah, good, you're here." Bill clapped his hands together, rubbing the palms against each other as the portkeyers all materialized in front of him, the majority shedding cloaks and robes and putting them into an enchanted burlap sack. He and Blaise had instructed everyone to dress practically, and though Snape and Malfoy were still wearing mostly black, they'd had the good sense to make sure it was all durable. Luna, he was a little less sure of, but in the end, there wasn't really anything  _wrong_  with the fact that her shirt was lime-colored. In fact, it was the other healer who seemed to have the worst idea of what was meant by practical, as he had worn slacks with his dragonhide boots and a shirt that didn't look like it would stand up to much wear.

Bill sighed internally, but let it pass. "Okay. Given the nature of our endeavors, I think it would be best for us to split into two teams. One, led by myself and Blaise, will be heading down into the tomb. The other will be staying up on the surface, with one person at each of the two entrances, to keep a lookout."

"Wouldn't it be safer if we all stuck together?" Healer Thompson asked nervously, peering around him to the visible entrance. None of the usual excavation crew were around today, which was just as well.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Not if we all encounter the kind of danger you can't just barrel through," he pointed out. Turning to Bill, he continued. "I'll stay up here with him. There shouldn't be any curses down there you can't handle."

Bill chuckled. "I think that might be the closest thing to a compliment you've ever deigned to give me, Blaise." The Italian wizard just raised his eyebrow, but that was to be expected. "That sounds like a good plan to me. That way, we've split up our medics and our curse specialists. Now, we don't want to split up the rest of us, because frankly, I have no idea what's down there." He couldn't help the edge of glee that crept into his tone, and a long-suffering sigh behind him indicated that his apprentice had noticed.

"Right then, no time like the present! In we go, assuming nobody has any objections?" When there were none, his grin might well have split his face in half, and Bill led the way into the tomb. The panel of stone in front of it bore the depiction of the man chained, but Bill ignored it, uttering a word that caused the smooth stone to split in two, both sides receding until there stood a darkened entranceway, impossible to see much through at all. With a wave of his wand, he produced a rope, and another gave him a light to clamber down it by. Extenuating circumstances or not, this really was the kind of thing he lived for.

Well, aside from his wife and child, of course.

* * *

_The Tomb, Antechamber_

The inside of the crypt was predictably dark, though surprisingly chilly. Hermione supposed it must be because it was underground and thus not exposed to any of the blistering desert sun. Some sand had filtered in, but for the most part, the entire thing was made from stone, large blocks of pale, smooth rock set with painstaking precision into the ground. She wondered if that had been done magically or by hand.

The chamber they were in appeared to be a perfect square, of moderate size and largely plain, except for the sarcophagi lining the walls to the right and left. There were five on each side, also apparently made from light stone, largely unmarked. "Servants," Bill offered knowingly, "sacrificed upon the death of the official entombed here to serve him in the afterlife, most likely. What you need to see is here, though."

On cue, the ball of light suspended in the air moved forward, illuminating the far wall, and Hermione's eyes went wide. It certainly was the Ouroboros, and the specific design bore an uncanny resemblance to the one left at the majority of the crime scenes. "No writing this time," Hermione pointed out. Its presence, along with the pictograph of the chained man and the snake, made it almost impossible to doubt that the killer intentionally led them here.

"Which probably means that whatever he actually wants us to see is further inside," Ron guessed, looking around himself warily and not quite able to stop the dread from creeping into his tone. Hermione understood immediately—he was looking for spiders, and there were bound to be some down here. Hopefully, they'd all be the normal-sized ones, but there was really no telling, and it was with that in mind that she withdrew her wand, gripping it tightly. Bill was leading the rest through the sole doorway in the room, and she filed in behind Snape, already on the lookout for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. Granted, she wasn't sure she'd be able to recognize such a thing; though she made her home in Egypt and had learned hieroglyphic systems on her way to her degree, this was not usually the context in which she actually ran across them.

The antechamber they'd lowered themselves into led into a much larger, circular one, this one much richer in aspect. Chests with ivory inlay and gold lining stood undisturbed at regular intervals, along with more sarcophagi, these ones more ornate but still not like the images she'd seen of those belonging to pharaohs. "More servants?" she asked curiously, looking around. It was actually kind of awful, that the death of one important person had meant the inevitable sacrifice of so many others, just because of their lower birth, but Hermione figured that the point at which pity would have been useful to them was long past. They were here to save the living and bring justice for the dead.

"You've got it," Bill replied, glancing around keenly. He seemed a bit distracted by something, and from the way his wand was waving around, Hermione supposed he must be looking for traps and fell silent. His skill at this might well be the only thing that kept them alive. The others were looking around, a fair mixture of wonderment from most, airy curiosity from Luna, and stoic silence from Severus, Malfoy, and the imposing Raphael Walsh.

Bill had finished with the left side of the room and was moving to check the right when the silence was broken by a soft, scraping  _click_. Everyone froze, glancing around to see who might be responsible for the sound, and eventually, all eyes found Ron, his own blue ones wide and more than a little frightened. Swallowing thickly, he spoke with a bit of a tremor. "Er… just put my foot down, and the stone kept going, yeah?"

"Don't move," Bill warned gravely, advancing towards his brother with purposeful strides.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," Ron replied, having a go at humor. Though gamely, the attempt fell quite flat, all things considered, and Hermione grimaced.

Before anyone else could so much as think, though, there was another scraping sound, much larger this time, and several hairline cracks appeared around the circular chamber, sand slipping out of them as they gradually turned into panels set into the stone, and then receded slowly into the floor. In total, four passages were revealed, one at each of which Hermione supposed were the cardinal directions.

"Okay," said Bill, clearly not having expected this, "I think we should all head back up and regroup just as soon as we get Ron off this panel. This looked like a normal tomb from all our preliminary study, but that is clearly not the case." Hermione recognized the look on his face; it was the same one she got when she was trying to figure something out and had a really interesting theory. "Harry, levitate that vase over here and wait for my signal. As soon as we get Ron's foot out of the way, we're going to replace it with that, to keep the pressure plate weighted down."

Harry was quick to comply with a swish-and-flick, and the vase made its way slowly towards the Weasley brothers. Bill provided a count, and on 'three' Ron jerked his foot of the panel and Harry steered the vase to take the spot. For a tense moment, there was silence, and then, when nothing happened, the group seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

At least until the ground underneath them started shaking. With those great rumbles, several gaps opened in the ceiling above, and sand started to pour in on top of them, scattering onto the floors of the chamber with what was far too much speed for comfort. "Everyone, to the entrance, quickly!" Bill shouted, and none of them needed to be told twice. The group rushed for the exit, ready to climb up the rope and get out, but Malfoy, who had been in the lead, stopped short, and Harry quite nearly collided with him. "The hell, Malfoy?" he asked, though the question was more speculative than angry.

Illuminated by the blue glow of Bill's light spell, the blond wizard looked even paler than usual, his face grim as he extended one long digit upward. Hermione followed the motion and gasped.

The entrance above them had been shut, and was letting no light through at all. They were trapped.

* * *

Bill threw a string of spells at the entrance, cursing when each failed to open it.  _Why_  it was closed he had no idea: either Blaise or Healer Thompson was supposed to be guarding the entrance for exactly this contingency. There wasn't really a whole lot of time to think about it, though; there was sand pouring in here, too, and if they didn't find a way out quickly, they were in serious danger of being buried alive.

"Looks like the only way out is in," Hilde said, tones clipped, but not panicked. Bill nodded.

"True enough; let's go." There wasn't any other choice; they simply had to hope that one of the four doors in the other room led back out.

By the time the group had all made it to the center of the other chamber, the sand was already knee-deep, or would have been if they were still standing in it rather than on it. The open entranceways, each dark and seemingly featureless, yawned in front of his eyes, and he knew he was going to have to do something he really hadn't wanted to do. "We have to split up," he announced forlornly, looking around at the group. "There's no telling which of these doors leads back outside, and the only way we'll find it is if we try all of them. Whoever gets out, find Blaise. He'll have to call in the team for an extraction."

What he didn't say was obvious: even assuming that someone found the way out, there was no guarantee any of the rest would last that long. "We have to go at least in pairs, for safety. There's no telling what else is trapped. Be careful where you step, and don't touch anything unless you have to. I briefed you all on basic curse-detection the other day, but… there's no guarantee that will reveal everything." He didn't bother to dictate how they should all split. At this point, it hardly mattered. He was the only one with any amount of expertise in this, and though he was willing to wager Hermione could read hieroglyphics, he honestly didn't think it would help. It would be all about relying on their reflexes and seeing what happened.

Grimly, the group looked at each other, well aware that it might be the last chance they had to do so, but with no time for proper farewells before they all literally drowned in sand. Walsh was the first to peel off, heading south. Snape was right after him, selecting the north door and striding towards it with purpose. To the surprise of quite a few, Hermione shot the group a brave smile and shrugged, following him, stymieing Draco's halting step in the same direction. Predictably, Harry and Ron went together to the east, well enough given their friendship and how they worked together. Bill chose to follow his brother; it was what family did, after all.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Luna nod courteously to Vanderpool, then gently grasp Draco's arm and tug him to the west. The older Unspeakable shrugged and turned south, her choice easy now that everyone else had found the incentive to move.

Bill hoped he'd see them all again, but there was really no way to know. In all his years of tomb-diving, he'd run into magical traps, terrain hazards, and near-death experiences with greater frequency than he ever planned on admitting to Fleur, but he'd always had backup, someone outside to extract him if things got hairy. Without that, even his legendary Gryffindor courage was wavering a bit, and he could not deny the cold feeling settling at the pit of his stomach.

Bill Weasley, who had faced down death more times than he cared to count, was afraid.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Entombed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter does Indiana Jones, just a little bit.

_Crypt, Chamber of the Sun_

The east door, as things turned out, led into a roughly circular room, which Bill told them was called the Chamber of the Sun, at least if the hieroglyphs on the wall were anything to go by. Ron honestly wasn't sure it mattered all that much, especially when the door closed behind them with a dull scrape and a shudder. "Not sure if that's a good thing or a very, _very_  bad one," he muttered, mostly to himself, but Harry met his eyes and grimaced anyway.

"Least the sand won't get in, right?" His best friend offered, and Ron nodded. He wasn't that optimistic about this whole thing, but at least his brother was here, too. If anyone could get them out of this mess, it was Bill.

The elder Weasley motioned for both of them to be still, withdrawing a second wand from somewhere up his sleeve and murmuring a low string of syllables that Ron couldn't quite follow. It sounded like some of them were in different languages, not the usual spell-speak. What had Hermione called it? Arca-something? Probably not important right now. Ron watched, a bit fascinated despite himself, having never seen anyone make use of two wands simultaneously before. It was one of those really difficult technical things that was really only useful for specialized occupations like curse-breaking. Ron knew nonverbals, and some Auror-basic wandless casting, mostly just _Accio_  if he were being honest, but even that was far more than most people.

As the two Aurors observed the room before them, Bill made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and grinned widely even as most of the stone floor tiles started to shimmer and disappear. Ron, on the other hand, watched the scene with mounting horror. Neither he nor Harry would have had the first clue how to check for things like that, which was fine for them because Bill was here. That also meant that he wasn't with the others, though, and he wondered if there might be something similar in the other rooms.

Suddenly, something occurred to him, and he nearly smacked his forehead in frustration. "Uh, Bill… can't we use a Patronus or something, get a message to the others, or even outside?"

Bill glanced over his shoulder at his brother, cocking his head to the side. "Very good, Ron. Normally, when we're excavating Muggle tombs, that's exactly what we'd do. Unfortunately, this is a very important tomb, presumably for a very important _wizard_ , and that means it's been sealed against magic both ways. That stops the protection and trap spells from decaying, and the tomb itself from being damaged by magic on its outside."

"Wait," Harry broke in. "If it's protected from magic, how was the killer able to deface it, like on the outside, with the image? And how can we cast in here at all?" He looked perplexed, which Ron was sure was echoed on his own face, and Bill chuckled a little, clearly more at-ease than they were despite the obvious danger. Just what exactly did that say about his older brother's life, he wondered?

"It's designed to keep the things inside in, and the things outside, out. Defacing wouldn't have been an issue. There were wards around this place for about a mile, which tended to slide away the eyes of anyone looking. Like muggles around Hogwarts or Diagon Alley, for instance. We had fun with those. Magic in here is fine because were not trying to get it out. If you don't believe me, give your Patronus a try. Aurors have to be able to cast them, right?"

"Not necessary," Harry said. "If you say so, I'll believe you. I guess the others knew, then?" He adjusted his glasses, pushing the black frames up his nose.

"Probably," Bill admitted. "Hermione's been on sites like this before. Unspeakables end up all kinds of places, some with dampeners much worse than this one, I'd expect. And who can say what your friend Luna knows?" That drew a laugh from both of the others, if a slightly uneasy one, considering the situation. Certainly, Ron would not have put it past Luna to have read up on old tombs for fun. Might just be that something like that would be handy, at the moment.

"Now," Bill continued, sobering considerably and glancing at the small section of floor tiles still present, "we're not out of the woods yet, so to speak. I've vanished the illusory tiles, and as you can see, it's not going to be easy going." Indeed, the remaining blocks of stone formed a visible trail, but one that would involve leaps of several feet from one two-foot section to another. "Hope all that Auror training kept you in shape, lads, because we're going to need it."

* * *

_Crypt, Chamber of the Sky_

North of the central room, Snape proceeded in near-silence, the light cast by his wand the only illumination in the tight corridor he'd entered. Behind him, Miss Granger was moving less quietly, and occasionally muttering to herself when her foot hit a stone in the gloom. He supposed there was, strictly speaking, no _need_  for silence, but it would have been advisable. Had she never had any need to be stealthy during the war? Perhaps the ability had just faded with time.

Or perhaps, he was willing to admit, he was being too harsh. Stealth for the average person and stealth for an Unspeakable, a former spy no less, were two different things, and it wasn't as though she were _loud_. He wondered why he even cared. It was unusually difficult to ignore Miss Granger, even when he actively focused his attention on doing so. If he wished, even Draco could become part of the background, but it seemed that the poor girl was doomed to draw his attention whatever she did. All the worse for her, and the more troubling for him. Not because he didn't understand it. On the contrary, he knew _exactly_  what that trait indicated, and if long hours over many weeks in the Library were anything to go by, this was not a fluke.

Inwardly (but not outwardly, never outwardly) Severus sighed, shaking his head just minutely and attempting to refocus on the path ahead. He had several detection spells active, but he was not Bill Weasley, and had not spent a great deal of time in tombs. There was always the chance he could have missed something.

It was why he walked in front, and subtly displaced her efforts to draw even with him by shifting to the left or right, as though he were unaware he was doing so. Eventually, she gave up and settled in behind him, casting her own _Lumos_  to try and avoid tripping.

The corridor seemed to slope gently downwards, occasionally curving a bit but mostly remaining forward otherwise, but of course he did not expect things to remain this way. It had to bottom out somewhere, and chances were that they would find some new trap or challenge wherever it did. He had half a mind to glance behind him for pursuing boulders, but that was far too mundane a trap for a place like this. One could simply blast through or levitate a simple stone. Such was not the case with something far more insidious, like sand. Traps would either be of that kind, or a more subtle variety, designed to ensnare the mind.

Perhaps they should have split the intellectual acumen more evenly. The fact that he and Miss Granger were together was rather unfair for Potter and the younger Weasley. Perhaps they had learned to get along without her in the years since the war, but he was willing to wager they still leaned upon her when things became too academic for their tastes. Draco and Miss Lovegood would be fine. Vanderpool was a very sharp woman, though he knew little of Walsh. The elder Weasley knew more about tombs than any of the rest of them, so perhaps the division was about as even as they could make it.

Snape was a realist; he knew that their chances were not particularly good. There was a distinct possibility that all of them were simply headed further underground and to empty chambers of some kind; this was beginning to look more and more like a lure placed in front of them by someone tired of their interference in his business. Severus was also, however, an intelligent man, and something still troubled him. This seemed a terribly-complex way to achieve a simple aim. He also believed there was something very deliberate about Draco's curse that would not come to fruition if he simply died, and without any way to know what path he would take, it made the most sense to ensure that all of them were survivable.  
Unless, of course, they were dealing with a fanatic (or plural fanatics, Merlin forbid), in which case all the logic in the world wouldn't help anyone understand what was going on. One of many reasons why he'd been so vital in the war. Voldemort was not a man one predicted by playing at strategy, which was in a way fortunate: it also meant he was fallible, and manipulable. The first two fingers of his free hand traced the scar on his face pensively, but dropped a moment later.

Now wasn't the time for this, either. Matters must be conducted in the best order possible, and in this case that was rather straightforward: return to the outside first, then consider the implications.

At last, the path ended, terminating in an open door. Pausing at the threshold, Severus recast his detection charms, frowning slightly when they returned all of nothing. Stepping forward, he tread lightly over the stones, stopping again when the room was suddenly lit, torches running along either side of the rectangular chamber flaring to life with suddenness that could only have been magical.

The frown deepened when he got a good look at the surroundings. The room was actually largely bare, and fairly small, no larger than the sitting room at Spinner's End, which was by now no doubt some hideously-bright color due to Xenophilius. More problematically, there was a door at the other end, this one firmly shut, guarded by a sentinel. As they entered, she rose from where she'd been laying on the sandstone, stretching languidly, claws scraping idly on the floor. She smiled, tossing a dark mane back from a human face.

"Welcome," she purred, "to the Chamber of the Sky."

* * *

_Crypt, Chamber of the Moon_

Passing through the south door, Hilde and Raphael were plunged into immediate and thick darkness on all sides, as their stone portal, too, slid shut behind them. Hilde, who'd been considerably behind the large man on the way in, ran smack into his broad back, as apparently he'd stopped for some reason. "Ow," she said wryly, reaching up to rub the bridge of her nose, which had seemingly hit his spine or elbow or something else not terribly soft. Then again, if the lad was Shacklebolt's bodyguard, she doubted very many things about him were soft at all.

" _Lumos_  isn't working," he said by way of response, and she blinked. Not that it did her much good; she was sure her pupils were dilated as far as they could go, but she still saw nothing.

"Not even _maxima_?" She asked speculatively.

"No."

"Ah, well that's just lovely, isn't it? I've always wanted to be trapped in a dark tomb with a taciturn half-giant for company." Her tone was too light for the situation, but then she figured being over fifty licensed you a bit of inappropriate sarcasm.

"I'm not a half-giant," he replied evenly, and she sighed. Some people just had no idea how to tell a joke from a dragon's ass, did they?

"Of course not," she said with tongue-in-cheek reassurance, then poked him in the back. Or what she assumed to be his back, anyway. "Well, go on. _Lumos_  or no _Lumos_ , standing here won't get us out of this tomb, and if I'm to meet my death today, I'd rather bloody well get it over with, hm?"

He said nothing, but she could hear his feet moving ahead of her, so he must have seen some wisdom in the statement, at least. She followed, placing her feet carefully so as not to trip. Granted, the lad seemed rather solid, so if she managed to grab hold of him on the way down, she probably wouldn't fall, but given the condition of her nose, falling might actually hurt less than that. The two managed what she could only call an awkward shuffle across the room, which so far as she could tell was just smooth stone. Reaching out sideways in either direction netted her only empty space, and she supposed there was nothing else to be done until they hit some kind of wall.

She hadn't noticed him stop, quiet at he was, and so naturally she ran straight into him again when he did. This was getting to be a little ridiculous, though she supposed her daughters, both in their last few years of Hogwarts, would love to hear about the time their mother accidentally groped the Minister's strapping bodyguard. Too bad all her missions and research projects were confidential.

She must be going crazy in her old age.

Raphael made no mention of it, however, and simply informed her of why he'd stopped. "I found a door. It's closed."

Hilde rolled her eyes. "So push, Mr. Walsh. You're a big lad; I'm sure if it can be moved, you'll move it." Really.

The sound of shifting could be heard, and Hilde backed off a step, letting him set himself against the stone and press as hard as she could. She, meanwhile, ran her hands along the wall, trying to find something to flip or pull or depress. She was surprised when this turned out to be a sound strategy, and her fingers alighted on a lever. "Huh. Found a switch," she said, then pulled it down immediately afterward.

Instead of opening the door, the lever lit the entire room in silvery brilliance, and she had to shut her eyes against the suddenness of the light. She groaned, but Walsh's voice cut through the small sound. "Keep them closed!" he said with sudden urgency, which naturally just tempted her to open them and see what had him so agitated. She wasn't dumb, though, and complied, even as a hissing, rasping voice reached them from somewhere in the room. It seemed to echo all over, and thus it was difficult to tell from whence it issued.  
"Welcome," it said, with all the delicacy of two stones rubbing together, "to the Chamber of the Moon."

* * *

_Crypt, Chamber of the Earth_

The westward exit led to a circular room, adorned with hieroglyphs that neither Draco nor Luna could read, though the more pictorial runes seemed to revolve around themes of soil and crops and suchlike. The space was only dimly-lit, and quite dusty, but massive in size, enough that they could see only what Draco judged to be a third of the way across.  
The walls and floor were smeared with blood.

It wasn't the best sign, as from the looks of it, it had been left there no more than a few days previous, and he had become rather accustomed to telling the difference. His hand automatically went for the sleeve where he kept his wand in its specialized holster, but it of course wasn't there, still shattered into several pieces and gathered upon his bedside table at the manor. He hardly even registered the door closing behind them; that was to be expected by this point. Besides, it would keep the sand out.

He turned towards Lovegood, who'd led him here in the first place, with nothing more than the intention of asking if she was ready to proceed, but the glint of steel in the scant light changed his course of action immediately. "Luna!" With no time to think, and only seconds to react, he grabbed her arm and used it to haul her in close, pulling her back against his chest and twisting them both so that the projectile embedded itself between his shoulder-blades. He hissed when the metal pierced his clothes and his flesh with ease, digging deeper than he would have expected, and he staggered backwards, nearly taking them both to the ground. She turned though, rotating herself in his grip and grasping his forearms, leaning back far enough to counterbalance his fall, and as a result, they were both able to remain on their feet.

It didn't take her long to assess the situation, and she glanced around, presumably for what looked like a safer place in the room. Taking his hand gently, she led him to a low stone bench and set her hand on his shoulder, applying downward pressure until he got the message and sat, not quite up to protesting right now. She was immediately at his back, inspecting the damage. "I'm going to need to pull this out before I can heal you," she said softly, and Draco just nodded, focusing on pulling his breath in steadily through his nose. Pain mastery was an important skill, but nothing save the right spells actually made anything hurt any less. One simply learned to cope.

She gave no warning, and that was probably for the best. He grunted as the blade was slid free of his back, feeling the expected blossoming of pain radiating outward from the wound, and registered the dull clink of metal on stone as she placed it down beside them. She had to peel his shirt down to get at the skin, and he complied as best he could, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves and trying not to wince. Fortunately, Lovegood was on top of things, and almost immediately, there was relief, as her magic seeped into his flesh with a sensation similar to warm, clean water. The pain dulled, and he could feel without discomfort the muscle and skin knitting together. He was used to healers keeping up a commentary of sorts when they did this, clinically informing him of the damage and the rate of repair, as well as any further symptoms he might have to worry about. But Lovegood did no such things, and indeed it seemed to him that her touch was not clinical at all, or maybe it was to her and there was something wrong with him. Her fingers traced lightly over the new skin as it formed, sending what felt like shocks of electricity right into his spine, and he struggled not to shudder, working to keep his breaths even.

Maybe it was just because other people healed with wands. Surely, that had to be it; the absence of the medium of focus was simply making him feel the direct contact of her magic more acutely, and his own was so warped by this point that this… _feeling_  was just another side effect of the curse. As it forced him to dream of her, surely it also forced into his head the thought that he didn't want her to stop.

She ran a hand up his back from his lower spine to his right shoulder, checking her work, and he really _did_  shiver then, immediately forcing his customary scowl back onto his face and preparing to say something rude just to put the situation back at equilibrium, but she interrupted his words before they even began.

"Thank you," she said softly, pulling his black shirt back up to rest on his shoulders so he could tuck his arms into the sleeves and settle the fabric properly over his chest. She'd obviously used a _Scourgify_  and a _Reparo_ , because whatever blood had soaked into it was gone, and the hole vanished as well. It was with disgust that he realized he was still faintly off-kilter from the experience, the aftershocks of the healing not quite gone yet, and when he replied, his voice was tight with control, though over what, he wasn't so sure.

"Don't bother about it, Lovegood. You're a better healer than I am, so it made sense." Actually, he was a pretty abysmal healer when it came down to it, and it would have taken her much longer to fix herself. Not that he'd had time to think about that in the moment, of course, but it served perfectly fine as a _post hoc_  justification.

She didn't indicate any suspicion anyway, and that was good. "Luna," she replied, her voice faintly reproving. He was more concerned with the fact that it was so close to his ear, given the fact that she was still kneeling behind him.

Draco swallowed. "I'm not calling you by your first name, Lovegood," he replied through clenched teeth.

"No? But you just did," she pointed out. Merlin, had her voice always been that sibilant? No, no, it was just the situation. The tension that they were dealing with given that their lives were on the line, and the aftermath of whatever the hell happened during that healing. She was talking like she usually did, really, and the curse was just making him malfunction. He couldn't answer, and he was saved from having to when she stood, using his shoulders to leverage herself to her feet, then gasped softly.

"What?" he asked, successfully returning the edge of irritation to his tone. He glanced up, but she was pointing to the stone bench beside him. The blade she'd set down there (too new to have been installed with the tomb, he noted,) was completely clean, free of blood, as was the stone it had been placed on. The last of it was just seeping down into the surface, actually, and absorption was _not_  a property of granite. Draco swore and stood abruptly, even as the lighting level in the room rose, revealing the rest of the circular chamber to them.

On the floor near the center lay a dead chimera, its blood clearly what coated the walls and the floor of the room.

* * *

_Chamber of the Sun_

It was only after Bill, who was bringing up the rear of the jumping procession, had hit the first pillar of stone that the three of them realized that after enough time, they would begin to sink. This had resulted in Harry, going first, having to hastily jump to the next so that Ron could occupy his and Bill could hop onto Ron's before he was lost to whatever was beneath the pillars. Unfortunately, Harry miscalculated his jump, and wound up scrabbling to grab the ledge of it, grunting uncomfortably when the sharp edges of the stone cut into his fingers.  
Ron tried a levitation spell to help him out, only to have it fizzle out at the end of his wand. "I thought you said magic would work in here!" he shouted to Bill, who made the jump with a bit less difficulty than the other two. Apparently, Greyback had left him with just a bit more than some scars and a taste for raw meat.

"This part probably has additional dampers," the elder Weasley pointed out. "It wouldn't just let you cheat your way across. Now keep moving, before they all collapse!" The others nodded and complied, hopping with increasing difficulty from one pillar to another, as it seemed they grew smaller in diameter and shorter in standing duration both as the group neared the other side. There was almost a moment of disaster when Harry chose the wrong way to leap, which would have put him at a dead end save by a timely yell from Ron, which brought him up short, arms windmilling to keep him from careening off the side.

Finally, the Head Auror's feet alighted on the solid sandstone of the other side of the pit, and he breathed a sigh of relief, only to whip around at hearing a cry from behind him. Ron had misjudged the jump, and was now hanging by the tips of his fingers from the final edge. Bill, stuck on the pillar, was going to start sinking any second. Thinking fast, Harry grabbed Ron's arm. "Move along to the side or we'll lose Bill!" he said, helping his best friend creep laterally along the ledge. But Ron's hands were injured as Harry's were, and he lost his grip, leaving him hanging by Harry's strength alone.

Both had bloody fingers, though, and the slickness of the fluid was helping neither. Harry could feel the inexorable tug of gravity as it pulled Ron looser in his grip, though they were both clutching each others' wrists with their off-hands as well. Harry looked into his best friend's eyes and saw the uncomfortable resignation there, edged with a hint of determination. "You've gotta let me go, mate, or we'll both fall down into who knows what."

Harry shook his head fiercely, trying in vain to haul the stockier Ron up the side of the ledge. He wasn't just going to let him fall into that pit; they had no idea how deep it was or what lay in it. "Not a chance," he replied, straining his muscles to the point of trembling. He could feel the exhaustion taking over, but only tightened his hold; they'd been through worse before; they'd make it through this, somehow.

A second pair of arms entered Harry's field of vision from the left, grabbing for Ron's forearms, and Harry could have sighed his relief if he weren't too busy helping Bill haul his brother onto the ground beside them. "Merlin, Ron; you've got to lay off Mum's food," Bill joked, and it probably wasn't even that funny, but it had all three of them in stitches anyway, so relieved were they to be alive.

Behind them, there was a faint grinding sound, and all three turned their heads to watch as a recessed stone door opened, revealing a staircase upwards. "Now _that_ ," said Bill, a lupine grin stretching over his face, "looks promising."

Harry couldn't agree more.

* * *

_Chamber of the Sky_

Hermione was smiling, almost despite herself. She knew sphinxes were dangerous, of course, but this one had been left to guard the door, and promised to let them through if they successfully answered three riddles. She'd been worried at first that the wording would be in a language she didn't know or contain ancient cultural references they had no hope of understanding, but the sphinx had happily switched from the Greek she was speaking (having said they resembled Greeks more than Egyptians or Nubians) to Latin upon request. Apparently, English was not a language she knew.

The first two riddles, she'd answered easily enough, in Latin, but the third one stumped her. Mentally translating into English, she repeated it to herself, but no answer was immediately obvious. "I am the means by which the weak might lift the strong, or destroy them utterly. Wars have begun in my name, and I have halted Vengeance before he strikes. I am power immeasurable, but no despot desires me?" She assumed it must have rhymed in whatever language it had originated in, but it certainly didn't in English. Perhaps it was some sort of cultural thing that she hadn't yet read of? Maybe just one lost to time.

The confidence she'd felt upon her first two successes evaporated, and she hesitated, wracking her brain with a tight frown on her face. At last, she looked to Snape, who had been silent thus far, apparently content to let her take charge of the situation. The confidence, unspoken as it was, had warmed her, but now she thought she might need his help. She found his eyes flickering back and forth between she and the sphinx, though they settled when she made eye contact, and he raised one brow, as if in question.

"Do you know the answer?" she asked, feeling suddenly a bit childish. When had the last time been that she'd had to ask someone else for help with such a matter? Surely not in a very long time. If she needed answers, she consulted books, and _remembered_.

Something in his face shifted upon hearing the question, and she couldn't decide exactly what it meant. There was an almost imperceptible hardening of his eyes, and his jaw tightened a bit. He nodded just slightly, turning to the sphinx. When he spoke, his voice was almost exactly the same as usual, only she detected the faintest hint of… sadness? No, surely that couldn't be right.

" _Amor_ ," he replied in Latin, and the answer clicked in Hermione's head. It made sense, in a sort of abstract way. She'd probably been thinking too literally, a fact that tended to obtain with regularity. She was a bit puzzled that Professor Snape of all people should know it without even needing to think that hard about it, but then as she was learning, the man was much, much more than he seemed. The sphinx stared at him for a long moment, gave him a knowing smile, and moved aside without another word.

* * *

_Chamber of the Moon_

"Oh shitshitshit, bloody hell," Hilde said to herself, mostly, and Raphael couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. At present, they were on opposite sides of what turned out to be quite the large room, and roughly oblong, and he was peering at the dagger he carried on his person at all times, charmed now to have a mirrored surface by some quick thinking on Vanderpool's part. The surface picked up the image of the writhing snakes, and he jumped to the side in just enough time to avoid the blast of fire that slammed into the wall where he'd been moments before.

The gorgon was not all that pleased with the fact that they had not yet looked at her, clearly. Upon glimpsing the serpent-hair from the corner of his eye, he'd immediately turned away, telling Hilde to keep hers closed, as she had inadvertently turned to face the beast, and slid his dagger out from its place in a sheath at his lower leg. One could never be too careful when guarding the life of the Minister of Magic, and frankly, he was glad now for the habit he had of strapping the weapon to himself every morning without fail. This was certainly not what he'd been led to believe he'd be dealing with today.

Vanderpool had needed to go the longer route, conjuring water from her wand, freezing it into a disc, and applying the mirror charm to _that_. Once the gorgon had realized what they were doing, she'd shrieked her fury and started throwing fire at them. Walsh had shoved his partner to one side and dodged to the other, leading to their present separation. It was tactically advantageous to present the gorgon with more targets, but even that would only get them so far.

Recovering, he heard Hilde shout the incantation for a _Bombarda_ , then a loud crash as the spell hit the stone at the gorgon's feet. They were circling her actively now, looking through their respective mirrored surfaces and either dodging or shielding against the fire that she shot, but it was very difficult to aim a spell with your back turned to the creature. Still, from the unholy shrieking, he could only assume that Hilde had managed to hit a foot or something, which might just help them out yet.

The gorgon retaliated by throwing her next burst of fire at the woman, and Raphael seized his chance. " _Petrificus Totalus_!" he shouted, turning his wand to aim it behind him. It struck the gorgon right in the back, locking her limbs together. "Stay where you are!" he shouted at Hilde. Since the creature's back was to him, he could easily walk up behind it and—  
Hilde obeyed, assuming that Walsh had some kind of plan, but when the persistent hissing didn't go away, she angled her ice-mirror and gasped. The gorgon had apparently shaken off the paralysis spell, if indeed it had ever held her at all, and turned around to look him dead in the face. Raphael was frozen, one arm raised, dagger in hand, doubtless with the intent of stabbing the snake-haired female in the back.

"Shit," she repeated for emphasis, but regretted it as soon as the woman's smug face became visible in the mirror. The next blast of fire was vicious, and Hilde had to hit the ground to avoid burning to a crisp. Unfortunately, she landed on her thin sheet of ice, shattering it into several pieces. Hearing the telltale crackle of another fire spell behind her, she grabbed the nearest shard, heedless of the way it cut into her palm, and scrambled to her feet.

"And this is why I do research behind a desk," she muttered, giggling a little. Oh, good. That was probably hysteria settling in. She was going to die. This gorgon was going to kill her, and her daughters were going to lose their mother, and she wasn't going to see sixty. She hadn't even been that _excited_  about seeing sixty before, actually, but now she couldn't help but think it a damn shame.

Another blast of fore scorched the wall beside her, singing one sleeve of her shirt on the way past, and Hilde scowled. "Look, lady, I'm having a crisis here, so can you stop with the flames for a minute?" As the answer was another projectile, she was going to go with no. Well fine then.

Glancing into the mirror shard, she pointed her wand over her shoulder. " _Aguamenti Torrentia_!" This version of the water spell was much, much more forceful than the usual one, and indeed sprayed with the force of a muggle fire hose, forcing Hilde against the wall with the kickback. It _did_  successfully put out the flames though, if that hissing sound was anything to go by, and the backspray had the added benefit of dampening her so she was less likely to catch on fire. That was nice.

Or at least it was, until the gorgon decided to reveal the fact that she could also conjure _lightning_. "Definitely why I stay behind a desk!" the Unspeakable squeaked, trying to think of something else. Binding obviously wouldn't work, as Walsh had so unfortunately discovered. Bombardment spells were unreliable hits, at least for her. She'd always been better with charms and potions than anything else. It'd been so nice when she was the first student in her year to master levitation—oh, wait.

Angling the broken shard of mirror, Hilde spotted what she was looking for. Changing the direction of her wand, she hoped it would work and tried despite the fact that it probably wouldn't. " _Wingardium Leviosa_!" She'd put a bit more power into the spell than she'd intended and the statue that had formerly been Walsh flew from his spot and into the gorgon's back with extreme prejudice, knocking the creature over and scattering her lightning off into useless directions. Hilde didn't want to break him, so he rotated him midair onto his back and brought that down on the prone gorgon. Repeatedly.

The sick crunching of bones echoed in the chamber, accompanied by the creature's grating shrieks and her own haggard breathing, and she watched out of her mirror shard as the creature fell still, the screeching abating, then added another three hits just to be sure. She didn't want to end up like poor Raphael, tricked into becoming a statue. That done, she set him down gently and walked over to him, working his knife from his stone grip and putting it to the base of the gorgon's neck, bearing down with all her weight. The knife slid in easily, and she wrenched it to the side, now officially certain that the creature was dead. Even the snakes on her head were still, and Hilde collapsed to the ground, leaning back on her hands and trying to catch her breath even as the door they'd been probing at earlier came open, light filtering in down the stairs it revealed.

 _Light. That's good_ , she thought, sliding into unconsciousness and slumping to the ground.

* * *

_Chamber of the Earth_

The massive circular chamber boasted at its far end an arched doorway, flanked by twin sarcophagi, and some distance in front of these stood some kind of altar, made of stone, with an ornate golden chalice placed in the center of it. The magical lighting in the room seemed to be focused on this spot, and Draco and Luna both headed towards it, though she noted with puzzlement that he actively seemed to be working to keep at least a foot of distance between them at all times. She wasn't sure why; he'd just saved her from serious injury and possible death, surely that meant he held her in some kind of regard?

But her request that he use her given name had been quite firmly denied, and she was left feeling as though she'd missed something important. Nevertheless, this wasn't really the place to think about it, and so she pretended not to notice the distant behavior, and took up humming a bit to herself as they approached the altar.

Upon examination, the dead chimera had proven to be freshly so, torn open with several laceration spells, its blood spattered and smeared over the walls in some kind of macabre display she could make no sense of. Draco had looked at it darkly, but said nothing. She was certain that if he'd known anything relevant, he would have spoken.

The altar was on a raised dais, and they ascended the stairs, forced into closer proximity by the narrowness of them, and came to stand before the chalice. Peering in, Luna cocked her head to the side, a curious expression flashing over her face, though it wasn't until she used her othersight that her eyes went wide and she blinked owlishly.

"What?" Draco enquired shortly.

"It's yours," she replied simply. He gave her a look of disbelief, then examined it himself. He must have seen what she had, though, because his hand reached for the chalice, as if to make a closer inspection of it. The moment his skin touched it, he hissed and pulled away as if burned, but Luna's eyes were concentrated on the door before them. Slowly, it seemed to pull all the streaked chimera blood towards it, the dried red of the stuff returning to liquid form and convalescing at the center of the archway.

On a hunch, Luna took up the chalice, ignoring Draco's half-voiced protest. It didn't burn her, and she didn't expect it would. Dashing his blood against the wall, they both stared with rapt attention as the crimson mixture darkened to a green-black color, separating out to form words in perfectly good English.

The top and bottom of the area patterned themselves after waves in the ocean, almost like a bizarre scrollwork to frame the message proper. The top was taken up by another Ouroboros, and beneath it were scrawled several lines of text. " _What the pretender knew was nothing. You cowered and fled from him, but I shall not give you the chance. He understood only a little of true horror and the place of magic, but he was not worthy of even that. The gods will be reborn, and the Trickster shall herald their coming. By price of blood, he will set us free._ Hm. Doesn't sound like a very nice message, does it?"

Draco snorted. "Pretentious. You have to be more arrogant than intelligent to talk about Voldemort like that." She nodded slowly, unsurprised by his use of the name.

"Maybe so, but even if this person is only half as bad…" she trailed off, and they both understood what she was getting at.

"Yeah," he said quietly, shaking his head. There was a scrape, and the door beneath the archway split down the middle, revealing a staircase. "Let's hope that's a way out."


	13. Chapter Twelve: Implications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is alcohol and quite a bit of UST.

_Ministry of Magic, Ballroom_

For being in the middle of what was supposed to be a celebration of the fact that everyone was still alive, Draco was feeling pretty miserable. Picking up the crystal bottle of Firewhiskey on the table (most assuredly the good stuff), he resisted the urge to swig from it straight and poured himself a liberal glass instead. He _hated_ Ministry functions with the same kind of fervor usually reserved for his mother's social gatherings, but he couldn't remember disliking one this much in a really long time.

It should have been more bearable, because it was private, really only for the Department of Mysteries and the other assorted members of their particular task force, but for once the lack of sycophantic morons only made things worse.

The staircase that he and Luna— _Lovegood_ , he reminded himself vehemently—had found led them up and out of the tomb, and it turned out to be the only such exit. The rest of the chambers had led to treasure rooms, with vast stores of ancient artifacts that he was pretty sure the excavation team would be documenting for years. Of course, that would have been precious little comfort if nobody had ever found the way out, because Blaise and that healer had both been knocked out cold, and apparently had their memories modified, so that they didn't even remember what they were _doing_ there, let alone who'd attacked them. If the two in the westward chamber hadn't found their way to the surface, everyone would have died eventually, from starvation if nothing else. Fortunately, the treasure chambers were relatively easy to access once the entire team had been on the task.

They'd stopped the sand and sent brooms for the Weasleys and Potter, who'd been in worse shape than Severus and Granger but much better than either Vanderpool, who looked like she'd lost a fight with a dragon rather than won one with a gorgon, and Walsh, who'd been transported back to England and freed from his petrification. Though gorgons had long been thought extinct, the remedy to the condition they caused was actually relatively well-documented in ancient times. Stroke of pure, dumb luck, or he would have thought so if he thought anything about this was less than deliberate anymore.

Draining the rest of his glass in a few burning swallows, Draco slammed it with a little too much force onto the counter he'd chosen to lean against, then pulled the stopper out of the bottle again. Wasn't like anyone would miss this one; there were plenty more to go around. He might as well enjoy it by himself.

Of course, they'd been given a day to recover, and then they were debriefed. Granger and Severus figured that the message he and Luna— _Lovegood_ —had found was yet another apocalypse motif (what with the waves representing floods or whatever); the reference to the rebirth of gods and tricksters was all likely Norse again. It was also uncomfortably similar to some of the things that had been happening to him recently. He wasn't an idiot, and he had paid _some_ attention in both History of Magic and Ancient Runes. The latter more than the former, but who was keeping track? Regardless, he could figure out without straining himself _too_ badly that the chained-to-a-rock deal was something that happened to tricksters from time to time. Prometheus, Loki. Especially the latter, who was also evidently important to the beginning of Ragnarök. That part, he'd just learned, courtesy of Granger.

He had no idea why the hell anyone would pick him for this shtick, as frankly while quite prone to malicious tricks in his school days, he hardly measured up to the likes of Fred and George Weasley, but he supposed it all went back to that damn spell he'd been hit with. He guessed the rat-faced man could have hit Severus just as easily, but…

_Fuck_. His glass was empty again, and he still wasn't far gone enough to stop thinking about all this business. Well, at least he was only thinking about one of the causes of his present misery. The second was wandering around in a peacock-colored dress, wearing feathers of the same in her hair, and currently chatting pleasantly with _Weasley_. Draco shot a sullen glare in the appropriate direction, but neither party in the conversation noticed him. Potter did, but all he got for his trouble was a look of vague confusion.

He'd been willing to put down his reaction to events in the tomb as a fluke, temporary insanity or inanity or something, but unfortunately that hadn't worked. He'd followed her back to the Portkey, then seen her back to Spinner's End before apparating to his own house like some kind of damned _moron_ , and the whole time, he'd just wanted to reach out and _touch her_. It was offensive to every sensibility he had, and Draco had decided that it had nothing to do with her specifically and he really just needed to get laid. He'd been a few months without, what with the investigation consuming all of his time, and he was bound to be feeling a dry spell of that length, surely.

So he'd walked into one of his favorite nightclubs, bought a few rounds for the other occupants, endured some woman asking him if he had a _twin_ (which was ridiculous; who wound up so drunk they were seeing double after only half an hour?) and tried to ignore the fact that every blonde in the room drew his eye for all of about two seconds before he was inevitably disappointed. Naturally, the best way to do this was pretend that another hair color was his preference for the evening, and he _wasn't_ going with ginger (a hue irrevocably and unfortunately associated with Weasleys). He'd seduced a brunette with little trouble, and they were back at her place—always her place, never his—and halfway out of their clothes, mouths all over skin and breaths heavy with heat before he realized that he didn't even know her name.

It shouldn't have been a problem. It had never been a problem before. Hell, if he weren't so recognizable, she wouldn't have known his, either, and even that would have been fine by him. Except it wasn't. Her skin was the wrong texture, her hair the wrong shade, and her eyes had the wrong look to them. Everything was wrong, and what arousal and heat the alcohol and club atmosphere had managed to conjure in his bloodstream vanished as though he'd taken the coldest of showers.

He'd said nothing, just pushed himself off her and righted his clothes, ignoring her protests and offense as though she weren't even there. Draco had apparated home and fallen into bed without even bothering to change, hoping with obvious futility that sleep would take him. It hadn't, and it was _her_ fault. He still heard that low voice in his ear, felt the phantom touch of fingertips across the skin of his back, and _damn her_ , it wouldn't go away.

Well. So much for only thinking about one of his problems.

* * *

Harry intercepted a rather singeing look from Draco, but with the sense that it wasn't really directed at him. Following the trajectory of it, he could see Ron and Luna talking to each other, as well as Lupin, Tonks, and Daphne Greengrass clustered around a table of light snacks. There wasn't anything to be angry about there, so what was the deal?

Shooting the Malfoy heir a confused look in reply, Harry shrugged and thought nothing more of it, bypassing Walsh, Vanderpool, a dignified-looking man with silver streaks at his temples who he assumed must be the latter's husband, and Hermione with a nod before heading over to the refreshments himself. He had to admit, he had enough alcohol working through his system at the moment that he was feeling unusually smiley, and generally amicable to everyone he saw, which might explain why he couldn't comprehend Draco's frustration.

The food table was covered with an assortment of the sophisticated and the whimsical, and he had to admit, it was better than the stuff that they served at informal Aurors' gatherings. He was a little too tossed to really be offended about that right now, though, and gathered a few light confections onto a plate, noting with some amusement that they even had Sugar Quills here—something he hadn't eaten since childhood—before imposing his company upon Remus, Tonks, and now Thompson. Apparently Greengrass had left, and he felt some disappointment at this. She'd long since been cleared of any suspicion in her sister's death, but she and Lupin both had been in and out of the Aurors' office for the past few months, and now that he no longer had to ignore it for the sake of a case, Harry would quite freely admit (well, okay, only to Ron and Hermione) that he was a bit taken with her.

"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks greeted, spotting him first, and his face broke out into a grin. Her hair was a pastel pink today, just brushing the shoulders bared by her relatively uncomplicated purple dress. The event wasn't formal or anything, but it was certainly more dressed-up than the average gathering of friends, probably given the Minister's advertised presence.

"Tonks," he replied, with a nod, which was promptly ignored when she pulled him into a hug, nearly resulting in his food going flying. He regained his balance quickly, though, and wrapped his free arm around her mid-back for a few seconds before she pulled away. Glancing over at the rest of the company, he acknowledged both Kingsley and Remus as well.

"How's Teddy?" he asked of his godson, which mostly got him more invitations to visit on weekends when he wasn't busy. He accepted, of course, but everyone knew he had little free time. Remus and Tonks really didn't, either, but whenever they weren't in the office, their son was their life, so he certainly didn't want for parental affection. Harry personally tended to volunteer himself for _more_ work when he didn't already have some, partially so that he could easily forget his lack of anything resembling a personal life. Maybe he should take next weekend off properly, though.

The next few minutes were pleasant conversation, at least until he caught a flicker of dark green and movement from the corner of his eye. Spotting Daphne back at the refreshments table, he watched her walk out onto one of several small patios, set up so that the attendees could enjoy the setting sun, or, by this time, the early hours of dark.

Excusing himself from the conversation, he grabbed a drink of something off a passing waiter and downed it in one go, setting it back down on the man's tray. He'd been set upon by an idea, and to be honest, it wasn't the first time he'd had it. Only the first time he'd been brave enough to go through with it. _Gryffindor courage, indeed._

She turned when she heard the sound of the door opening, and Harry stepped out onto the patio with a smile. "Evening, Daphne," he said, approaching to offer her the flute of champagne he was carrying. "Thought you might like some before Draco drinks everything in there," he joked, and was rewarded with a glimmer of a half-smile and a shake of the head.

"So I'm not the only one who noticed." But Merlin, was she beautiful. As tall as he was, and quite a bit of that in leg. Probably a little taller right now, considering the heels. The modestly-cut dress in forest green set off her lighter-hued eyes well, and gave her dark red hair lovely contrast. More than anything, though, it was the effortless poise with which she conducted herself that had him enamored. It was kind of strange, actually; it wasn't a quality he'd ever particularly looked for before, but her cool demeanor suggested something a bit warmer underneath, and he was inescapably curious about it.

"I don't think he's being as subtle as he thinks he is, right now. Caught him glaring at something earlier; buggered if I know what, though." He leaned his forearms against the patio's railing; it looked out into some of the Ministry building's nicer grounds, neatly-trimmed hedges, a few water features, and the occasional spray of flowers here and there.

"Mm," she demurred, and he heard her shift slightly, and from the corner of his eye, he could tell that she'd turned to face him. "I do sincerely hope that you're not here to talk about Draco Malfoy, Mr. Potter."

And just like that, she'd thrown his equilibrium off. Of course he wasn't, but he'd been counting on the ability to beat around the bush a bit longer in order to figure out just how to approach this incredibly unapproachable woman. Now he couldn't risk that tactic any longer without looking like an idiot. So he went for honesty. "Actually, no. I'm here to ask you on a date, Miss Greengrass, but every new way I think of to say that sounds more ridiculous than the last." He cleared his throat a tad awkwardly, and turned his body around to look at her properly, half-afraid of what he'd find.

He needn't have been, though perhaps he _should_ be more prepared in the future for those rare moments when she smiled, because he seemed to temporarily forget to breathe when that happened. Not the wry half-smile of earlier, but a full-blown, teeth-flashing smile that crinkled her nose a little bit. "That one wasn't so bad. In fact, I think I'll accept."

* * *

Hermione wasn't particularly accustomed to gatherings of this nature, and had rather forgotten how much of a lightweight she was. Of course, she was presently still blissfully unaware of this fact, but also more than a little intoxicated. At some point a little while ago, Ron and Luna had made their way over to her, and the former had engaged her in conversation while the latter gently extracted the still half-full glass of Firewhiskey from her hand. Hermione hadn't protested, nor had she particularly minded when Luna placed a hand at one of her temples and did something with her magic that cleared a fraction of the fuzziness from her head.

She was still a bit drunk, but at least she was aware of that now. "Thanks, Luna," she said brightly, grateful for the assistance. The other woman had said something in reply, but Hermione hadn't caught it, glancing around for someone she would have expected to see but hadn't. "Where's—" she started, but then lowered her voice considerably, remembering that something about the situation was secret. "Where's Severus?"

The question earned her a weird look from Ron, and she couldn't discern the reason until she realized she'd slipped up and used his first name. Luna didn't seem to notice—or maybe she did and didn't care, which was actually more likely—and fixed her with a rare, solemn gaze. "He can't be here, Hermione. There are too many people here who aren't allowed to know." She tilted her head, and Hermione followed the motion to Tonks, and then Hilde's husband, and a few other 'plus ones' that had been invited to the gathering.

"That's… that's not… _fair_." Hermione replied, somewhat indignantly, and Ron snickered, presumably at her tone, which was eminently familiar to her friends as the voice she used when feeling particularly stubborn about something.

"Well, I have it on good authority that he spends most of this time in the Department of Mysteries common room, if you want to take the party to him," Luna replied lightly, beaming and pressing a bottle of Firewhiskey into her hand that Hermoine hadn't even noticed that was there.

"What a lovely idea!" Hermione replied, nodding. It wasn't fair that everyone else got to have fun while Severus had to sit by himself in a common room somewhere. If she'd thought about it a little more, she might have decided that he probably preferred things that way, but she wasn't in much of a state to be doing a lot of thinking at the moment, and so instead, she nodded firmly to herself more than the other two and struck out for the named room, though honestly she wasn't quite sure where it was. Hermione was indeed intelligent, but she was also very brave, and with her wits a little hampered at the moment, it was her courage that was driving her.

And she had a few questions for Severus Snape.

"Are you sure that was a good idea?" Ron asked Luna beside him, his confusion evident in his tone. "He'll probably just get testy and leave, after all."

"Oh, I'm quite sure," Luna replied airily, flashing a dazzling smile and drifting off to go find someone else to talk to. Ron shook his head and followed her, unsure himself. Then again, Luna had a strange way about her, and seemed to know things that other people really didn't.

* * *

_Department of Mysteries, Field Division Common Room_

Snape sat, as he often did, in a dark blue armchair beside the fireplace in the smaller common room granted to the members of the Department of Mysteries' Special Field Division. There were only four, as most of what the Unspeakables really did was research, but as this case and others like it had proven, maintaining at least a few people such as himself was absolutely necessary.

The half-empty bottle of spirits next to him might not have been quite so necessary, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd been driven to the stuff in the wake of a particularly-unfortunate series of events. Severus was far from an alcoholic, but when one had seen the things he had, sometimes, one needed a little help taking the edge off. It was precisely why the gathering going on in another part of the Ministry building had been planned at all, but as his unique situation prevented him from participating, he was here instead.

"Professor," came a voice from behind him, and he put it down to his wandering thoughts that he had not heard her approach. She was perhaps the last person he wanted to see right now, because she was observant but not always understanding, which meant that she would not only be curious about a number of things he did not want to talk about, but also that she was likely to _ask_ about them.

"Miss Granger," he replied. There was a chance, however, that falling back on these formalities could stymie the worst of the queries. It had before.

She didn't say anything else for a while, plonking another bottle of something down on the end table beside his seat and settling herself into a different one, usually occupied by Lupin, actually. With a small sigh of contentment, she kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under herself, leaning her head back to hit the cushioning of the chair. She was rarely so disarmed, even in her own home (a place in which he'd spent a considerable amount of time during his research stint in Egypt), and he surmised from this that she was experiencing at least a mild level of intoxication, probably not so different from his own current condition. He supposed that, young as she was, she too had seen things it was better not to have seen.

Opening her eyes, she lifted her head and looked at him directly. "Severus," she said, and there was an air of quiet certainty to the pronouncement that he wasn't quite certain how to deal with. The intent was obvious: she was, whatever the reason, refusing to remain in the paradigm that had characterized their every interaction thus far. This was… not favorable. Severus was a man whose mind worked upon very neat, precise, and carefully-laid lines. Everything was done for a reason, every word and address had a purpose. That she was marring the distinctions he so carefully kept in place did not bode well for him, as he had long been tempted to do the same, and his reasons were not innocuous.

He found his mouth rather dry. This would not do, however, as presently her gaze remained fixed, unwavering, on his. He was confident that nothing in his face had betrayed his feelings on the matter, but she would not be dissuaded by mere cool silence. She was far too stubborn for that. Did he even wish to dissuade her? He _should_ ; he was no fool. Yet…

"Hermione," he replied slowly, before he'd come to a proper decision about it. The flicker of happiness that lit behind her eyes was almost enough to convince him that he'd made the right choice. She smiled, he swallowed, and silence reigned for a bit longer.

Her smile faded, though, dropping into a thoughtful frown that he recognized. "In the tomb," she started, and he inwardly cursed her for homing in precisely on what he didn't want to say, "you knew the answer to the third riddle. _Amor_ , love." He said nothing, so she pressed further. "That's not something most people would think you know anything about, Severus."

His eyes narrowed; this was dangerous territory, and he was not going to let such implications as she was making slide without warning. " _Most people_ see little beyond the ends of their own noses." It was more a concession than he wanted to make, but she had phrased the statement deliberately to draw _something_ from him, and they both knew it. He contented himself with the assurance that he'd given her nothing she didn't already know—his disdain for people who spoke of what they did not understand. He wasn't certain he was ready to part with anything else, not just yet.

Hermione made a sound of agreement, leaning forward slightly in her chair. They were angled to share the same small end table, and when she positioned herself like that, they were no more than a few feet apart. He saw her arm move, raising her hand, but it hovered uncertainly near the level of her shoulder, occupying a part of that void between them as though she desired to reach further, but something prevented her. She met his eyes, warm brown to chilly black, and he realized what it was, what stilled her motions.

She wanted his permission.

Snape swallowed. There had been times in his life when he'd considered himself a weak man. Not in the arrogance of youth, but after—when Lily had died and everything in his world had fallen apart. Then again the Dark Lord's return, when he'd found himself unsure he could continue his ruse, playing at double agency and manipulating Voldemort's violence as much as he could with his subtlety, his wit. He'd thought himself stronger in the aftermath of his decision to continue, to harden his heart as he must, to watch colleagues, people who could have ben his friends if he'd let them, die to preserve his cover. To say nothing, do nothing, when Charity Burbage begged him for his mercy. To raise his wand in place of his godson and slay Dumbledore, the man who had _rebuilt_ his world in Lily's absence. It was not an ostentatious strength, but that was how it needed to be.

Something in her, _about_ her, made him feel weak again. As though growing a layer of ice over himself, accepting certain bitter realities, refusing to connect with anyone, had been the wrong thing to do, somehow. He hated that; he might have hated _her_ , if he was any longer capable of hating anyone but himself.

The line of his shoulders slackened somewhat, and he exhaled, his head lowering a few inches, and that was all she required. Her fingertips were soft as they traced the line of the scar on his face, and he recognized dimly that she had a scholar's hands. What calluses she might have gained from the war were gone from her now, eased away by a life spent amidst the leather bindings of books and the smell of ink and old parchment—scents which she shared, over the top of something female and distinct. He tried not to think about it.

"How did you get this?" she asked, and her voice was so soft he thought it might have been made so by pity, and his eyes hardened. Looking at her, though, he found no evidence of it. Curiosity, yes, and something else he didn't recognize, but not pity.

"Nagini," he said, carefully maintaining the flatness of his tone. He could still remember without effort the feeling of being bitten by the snake, again and again, each new injection of poison an agony comparable to the _Cruciatus_ , and longer in the burning. Voldemort had not known of the antidote he carried, though he should have. Expecting that a trained spy and potions master would not know enough to concoct and carry such a thing was ridiculous, but the Dark Lord had sacrificed much of his sanity for power, and the keen edge of his mind had dulled over time. He was still clever, but there had always been things he was selectively blind to. Severus's own aptitude wasn't the least of them.

Understanding lit her expression, and her fingers left the scar, tracing a hypothetical path down his cheek and along the line of his jaw. He was confident that the touch was highly unnecessary, but he made no move, said no word to stop her. "Why keep it? A good healer could remove it for you." It wasn't cursed like Potter's after all, and she was right.

So Snape looked her dead in the eye, and for once spoke the truth as baldly as any guileless fool might. "Because some things ought not be forgotten."

Her lips parted, as though she might say something, but her tongue darted out to wet them instead, and he found himself entirely transfixed by this. It was a habit she had, when she was nervous or unsure of what she wished to say—one of many things he'd learned after weeks in the archive with her. At the time, he hadn't really wanted to notice, but observation was a hard habit to break. Now, for instance, he noted that he was not the only one devoting attention places it should not go; she was staring at his mouth as well. For a moment, Snape contemplated allowing himself this weakness also, but he could not. Clearing his throat softly, he drew her eyes back to his, and silently asked her not to.

Her lips quirked, but it was not a happy gesture. Still, she pulled back gently, taking one of his arms with her. Slowly, she lifted the sleeve of his robe there, exposing the faint and faded Dark Mark. "Things like this?" she asked, tracing the pattern with an expression faintly troubled.

He nodded, glad that she could understand, without the need for him to say it aloud. Weak, indeed. How had he become so weak? She looked up at him, then, brow furrowed, and was apparently about to say something else, but they were interrupted by a noise from just outside the common room—something crashed to the ground. Both heads snapped in that direction immediately, and both drew back from the other, returning to the safe distance they had kept between themselves earlier.

There was a low curse, and Draco entered the room, looking slightly unsteady on his feet. Whatever level of intoxication he'd achieved did not make him blind, and he looked between the two of them suspiciously, but then he just rolled his eyes and headed towards his office.

"Bloody hell. Potter, Vanderpool, Lupin, even _Snape_. Losing my touch." Hermione glanced at him in obvious confusion, but Severus only shook his head. He had an idea what Draco was referring to, but he wasn't going to share it. Pulling in a breath through his nose, he stood.

"It seems your celebration draws to a close. You should return before someone follows you here who shouldn't." He was still a secret, after all, kept from about half the people at the engagement, and he did not wish to take the chance that any of them had thought to follow Draco here. She looked a bit displeased, but put on a smile anyway, and nodded.

"Of course. I—" she hesitated for a moment, and her face took on a pinkish tinge rather becoming. "Thank you. For talking to me." He was quite certain that was nothing to be grateful for, but he nodded in response to her cautious smile, and with that, she turned to leave.

He ignored the fact that she seemed to take most of the room's warmth with her.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break in the case arrives via an unlikely source.

_Three months later, Knockturn Alley_

Pansy sighed. This new job was such a pain. Granted, pretty much anything was better than the gossip rags, but being a beat journalist meant that she had to just wander around and  _look_  for stories, so it wasn't as though she got to report on anything relevant yet. All the major stories were still important enough that people knew about them already, but at least on the upside, she got to go digging for things. Sometimes, she turned up a small gem, but no major scoops yet.

It was perhaps four in the morning at the moment—she was trying to worm her way into a smuggling den in Knockturn using her old connections from the war days, but the man who ran the place was proving incredibly reticent on the matter. She might have to give up soon, lest she give herself away with too much eagerness. It was a pity, though; the story was  _bound_  to be important, maybe something to go to the Aurors with, even. Well, she supposed she could always try something else, seeing as how there was never a shortage of illegal activity in wizarding London.

Her next stop was a small café in Diagon—Millicent and Gregory ran it, actually, which seemed like a very strange occupation for a couple of former Slytherins, but suited them both quite well. They didn't technically open until six, but they were already there baking by now, and Pansy had made a habit of swinging by if she was in the area. They made the best lemon strudel she'd ever had. On second thought… maybe she shouldn't. Unlike Millicent, who had always been pleasantly plump and was now married, Pansy still had to think about her figure, else she'd never find herself in the same situation.

Oh, Merlin, that was her mother again, wasn't it? She was becoming her body-shaming, terrible, shrewish mother. Sod it all, now she  _needed_  the bloody strudel—

All thoughts of delicious baked goods fled abruptly from her mind as she rounded a corner in Knockturn and came upon something she'd never expected to find. Dark eyes widened as she took in the scene, her gaze alighting last of all upon the wall of the nearest building. She read the words there and blanched, all the color leaving her face and a dark, rotting feeling coiling at the pit of her stomach. It couldn't be, surely. Still, she dutifully raised her wand, took several images with it, and then spoke in a shaky voice.

" _F-Finite Incantatum_."

Now…  _now_  she needed to pay a visit to an old friend. And Draco Malfoy had some explaining to do.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor_

"Master Malfoy, Miss Parkinson is at the door." The house elf looked a little nervous for having interrupted his sleep, which was perhaps understandable. He slept only fitfully as the case dragged on—each new body demanded of them more work, and they were essentially getting nowhere.

The stagnation of his personal life was just as frustrating, but he had not reached the point where he was yet willing to admit the reason for that.

But he was dragged now from the first full night of sleep he'd had in days, and he didn't even have the energy to be angry about that. "Fine," he said, "send her into the study." He had no idea what the hell Pansy was doing here at this hour; it couldn't be any later than seven in the morning. "Thank you, Daisy."

Both the elf and Draco froze, and for the same reason. Daisy recovered first, offering a tentative smile, a bow, and disappearing with a snap of her peculiar magic. He was having a harder time processing what he'd just done. Draco Malfoy was not the kind of man who  _thanked_  house-elves. He wasn't explicitly rude to them, exactly, he just didn't offer tokens of appreciation, even tokens as simple as words. This wasn't something that extended only to elves, either: really, he just didn't thank  _people_. Gratitude was too closely-tied to weakness, as though one were admitting to a debt of some kind. And a debt was  _definitely_  a weakness.

Somehow, he managed to blame  _her_  for this, too.

It was a rankling thought, and he didn't want to have to blame her for anything about himself, because that meant he was changing, and this was something he instinctually resisted almost as much as weakness. Maybe because it was one—if you had to change, you were admitting that something you were before wasn't good enough, and that sounded weak to him. He did not dare contemplate whether it was  _true_.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Draco dressed himself as quickly as possible. Still all black; he no longer bothered to deny the influence Severus and his present occupation had on his wardrobe choices. Without time or inclination to slick his hair back as he preferred, he simply let it hang where it would, running a hand through it but not bothering with much besides that. It was just Pansy—he certainly didn't need to impress her. All such pretensions had vanished when they made it clear with each other that they weren't ever going anywhere with what had been the bare edges of a sexual relationship. He wasn't going to marry her, and she wasn't content to lounge about and be his mistress. The war had changed them all… some more slowly than others.

Now, he supposed, entering the study on feet too quiet for someone so self-important, they had a friendship that he would have called odd if he didn't regularly interact with the oddest woman on the planet. Next to Luna— _Lovegood_ , he reminded himself harshly—just about anything looked perfectly ordinary, including the way he interacted with his few friends.

She was seated in one of the armchairs in front of his desk, legs crossed primly, wearing robes of a crisp, pressed deep purple. The color suited her fair skin quite well, as well as her dark hair and eyes. Then again, she'd always known about things like that—Pansy Parkinson would not be caught dead with baubles and  _quills_  in her locks or mismatched color schemes. Something was off, however, and her tension was so palpable he could almost taste it on the air. So this was going to be unpleasant, then. Draco huffed a mental sigh and smoothed his face over. Might as well get on with it—bad news had never gotten better for being put off.

He sank into the desk chair with the best approximation of his usual feline grace he could manage this early in the morning, and from the look she sent him, he knew the dark circles under his eyes were giving him away perhaps more than he would like to admit. He waved a hand in a terse gesture, indicating that she should start, even as Moxie, one of the other house-elves, set out an early tea service. He bit his tongue when he almost thanked her, too, and something in her face seemed to fall just the slightest bit at the absence of acknowledgement. Pushing aside the faint twinge of discomfort that resulted, Draco took up his cup and leveled cool grey eyes at Pansy.

To his surprise, his friend produced several photos with a wave of her wand, laying them out wordlessly on the desk in front of him. They appeared to depict yet another dead woman, facedown in Knockturn, if the environment was what he took it to be. He supposed he should be attempting to look surprised—as far as Pansy knew, his only connection to the cases was that one of the victims had been an ex-girlfriend. He did not have to feign his shock, however, when he looked closer at one of the images, picking it up from its place on the desk. The torture marks on the victim were much as the others had been, with one difference: the words the killer had been trying to form were  _legible_.

_Son of Light, born to Darkness, Dragon unchained._

It was hard to read, not at all elegant, but it was indeed possible to decipher the words. They were in plain English, and he could understand immediately why she had brought this right to him. "Where did you find this?" he asked her, though he already knew the answer.

"Knockturn, this morning. I was working on a story." She sounded calm, but there was a barely-perceptible edge of panic to her tones. Understandable—he supposed that for people who did not see them so often, dead bodies, especially like this, would be a traumatic thing to stumble across. The dread at the pit of his stomach reminded him quite poignantly that even he was not immune.

"You have to take it to the Aurors' Office." He finally tore his eyes from the picture, looking straight across the desktop at her.

As he expected, she balked immediately, frowning and narrowing her eyes. "Draco, you know what they're going to think. These women disappear from clubs—clubs that  _you_  are known to frequent. They're going to see this reference to a dragon, see a former dark wizard, and stop asking questions. They'll arrest you, and with everything that's happened to these poor women, you'd be lucky if they let you die for it!" The edge of panic was seeping further into her voice.

"I take it you hid the marks on the actual body?"

Pansy nodded slowly. " _Finite Incantatem_  made them illegible again. She still looks…" Pansy paused, unsure how to describe the state of the woman, and he could see the struggle to remain composed going on behind her large, dark eyes. Always her tell, her eyes. "Hurt. But not like this." She swallowed audibly. "I can't let you go to Azkaban for this, Draco. You're my friend, and we both know how hard it is for us to keep those as it is."

He snorted at the attempt at humor. However poor it was, it was true, in a way, and he supposed he understood where she was coming from. He could even appreciate the loyalty. But what she didn't know was to her detriment in this situation. Severus and Granger and everyone else needed to see this, and they wouldn't unless Pansy or he turned them in. He would risk giving himself away if he asked to keep the images—so he needed her to walk them into the Aurors' Office herself.

"I won't go to Azkaban. But you might, if anyone finds out you were keeping this from the authorities. You  _can't_  let that happen. Turn this in." She shook her head, looking as though she was going to refuse again, but Draco didn't give her the chance. "Please. I know you're my friend, Pansy, and if you consider yourself such, you'll do what I'm asking you right now. I can't tell you why, but you  _have_  to get this to them." She looked almost as startled as Daisy had to hear the word from him, but he didn't even spare the time to consider it.

In the end, she stared at him for a long moment, assessing. He wondered what she saw, but did not ask, and she provided no commentary on it. Rather, she relented, gathering up the photographs and her composure alike before she swept out of his study and away from the manor. Draco slumped back in his chair. There was no point in going back to sleep now—he would likely be summoned to the Ministry at any moment. Hopefully she gave the damn things to someone smart, who wouldn't leak the photos to the press. Pansy  _was_  the press, in some respect, but of all the things she would possibly do to advance her career, bringing all of that suspicion down on him was not included. She might be a bit ruthless, but she did hold her real friendships very close to her, that much he knew.

Sighing heavily, Draco pushed himself out of his chair and headed for his room.

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

It was one Ronald B. Weasley who was left in charge of the Aurors' Office that morning, while Harry, Violet, and several of the field officers went to the latest site of a body dump. He hated to say it, but it had become something of a routine now, morbid as that was, and there was a sort of silent efficiency about the process that was hard to argue. They seemed to always be waiting for those calls, these days, the heavy air of anticipation hanging over the wing of the Ministry building until it was inevitably broken by another summons. Even with increased nighttime patrol routes, nobody ever seemed to come across the killer actually leaving the bodies behind, only the bodies themselves.

He was honestly a little relieved that it was his turn to stay behind. Ron was somewhat used to the grisly and the macabre by this point, but these cases were starting to wear on the iron lining of his stomach. So perhaps he should have been expecting that the case would find some way to make its way to him regardless, though he would never in a million years have picked the way in which it did.

Still, here he was, with these photos, and assembling the task force seemed like a necessary measure. The floo calls were put in, the Patronus message sent out to the scene, and then it was just a matter of waiting.

Not more than an hour later, everyone was once again assembled, in varying states from weary to downright exhausted. Only Luna seemed to be relatively unaffected by the developments, but then, she had been able to maintain her strange sort of serenity even during the war, so that was perhaps not startling.

"This can't get out." Harry's first concern was the security of the matter, naturally, and Ron couldn't help but agree. Malfoy might be an arrogant tosser, but he wasn't responsible for these killings, and nobody should start accusing him of it, or the whole investigation could potentially fall apart just trying to do damage control.

When Hermoine's turn came to inspect the photos, though, a curious thing happened: she smiled. Ron was confused as all get-out, a feeling that only deepened, when she leaned slightly sideways to show the image to Snape, who nodded as though he understood something she'd not even said aloud. Well, that was weird. "I think," she pronounced, "that the killer has just made his or her first mistake."

"What?" Ron wasn't exactly sure how this counted as a mistake, but he was certain Hermione would be happy to explain.

And she was. "Well, it's obvious that the message is targeted for Malfoy, isn't it?"

"Sure," Harry said slowly, "but how is that a mistake, exactly?"

"Because to the public at large, I'm just some frivolous wanker," Malfoy contributed, and Ron snorted to contain his amusement, as did Bill, probably for different reasons. "This confirms that it has to be someone who knows I'm an Unspeakable. Otherwise, how would they know I'd ever read the damn thing? Potter's going to keep it secret from the public—that wouldn't have been a hard guess, now would it have?"

"And," Hermione added, "it says Dragon  _unchained_. That is definitely another mythology reference. The chained trickster has been unchained, set loose."

"Something which usually signals the beginning of the end," Blaise pointed out, and the enthusiasm in the room dampened slightly. Still, the news was at once good and troubling. Good, because their suspect pool was now definitively narrowed to people who knew that Draco had regular contact with the Ministry. Possibly the exact people who'd hexed him in the first place—and their killer had also had access to last-minute information on the Aurors' Office, to know that it would be Draco and Snape and  _not_  some Aurors who would be attempting the smuggling bust on the day this all started.

Of course, now everyone on the task force was looking at  _one another_  with a little more wariness than before. Such information was hardly known to anyone, and most of those who did know it were either in this room or close by in the building. "An inside job," Ron muttered darkly. "I don't like it."

Nobody really did, and the mood was heavy when a much lighter voice broke the silence. "That line does sound quite like a prophecy, doesn't it? Are there any prophecies on Draco in the Hall of Mysteries?" The interruption, of course, came from Luna, and Ron could have hugged her, both for interrupting the steady brood that was settling over everyone and for being so bloody odd that she could think of something to get them all moving again.

"I think we ought to go find out." At Harry's words, everyone in the room stood. At last, a possible break.

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Hall of Mysteries_

"You've  _got_  to be kidding me."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, shaking his head. "I wish I was." Sure enough, the Hall of Mysteries contained a spot on a shelf labeled  _Draco Malfoy_ , not too far from the one that said  _Harry Potter_ , actually, but like that one, this piece of shelving was conspicuously empty. Apparently, Draco hadn't even known there was a prophecy concerning him, though admittedly, his parents might have and not told him. There were a lot of things that had been kept from him over the years, and he'd forgiven them for that a long time ago.

"I'll ask my father, but I find it unlikely he knows anything." Especially since Severus didn't either. The prophecy, whatever it was, could well have been made about him without either parent's knowledge, especially if it was made during a period when the Malfoys were enemies of the Ministry. Or really at any point during the war. There had been more important issues to take care of at that time, after all.

Unfortunately, with nowhere else to go, the investigation team was now forced to turn in a direction none of them wanted to go: the killer's knowledge of Draco's real occupation. There were very few people who knew about it, even fewer who had known prior to the beginning of the murders and Draco's hexing. For a moment, they all just looked at one another, some combination of anxiety, apprehension, and resolve written over most every face.

"This needs to be handled by someone impartial," Snape said firmly, and Harry nodded.

"But also someone who knows enough to be helpful. That limits it to those of us who didn't know Draco was an Unspeakable before the investigation." There was a quick look around the room—Harry, Severus, Draco himself, Walsh, and Vanderpool were all counted out then. So was anyone else who might be in the minister's cabinet, and therefore know about the team and its purpose. There were even more people that would need to be investigated as potential leaks.

That left Ron, Hermione, Healer Thompson, Blaise, Bill, and Luna. Of these, only Ron had significant security clearance beyond the task force, or much of any experience investigating. The choice was clear. Harry turned to his best friend. "Ron, we're counting on you for this. Whatever you do, don't tell any of us anything until you have some firm conclusions. We have to be kept in the dark. The same goes for any of the rest of you that Ron needs to question or consult. Not a word of this to each other." Most of them nodded, and there were a few murmurs of assent. "For now… the rest of us should try and get some sleep or something. I have a feeling that once this breaks, we're going to be really busy for a while."


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's snow, and a holiday party.

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

Ron sighed and waved his wand, banishing several more of the papers on his desk into a (mostly) organized file cabinet. It made him feel dodgy, looking over the personnel files of people he'd worked with so closely. It didn't help that there was  _nothing_  in any of them to indicate suspicious behavior.

Walsh was Irish by descent, though apparently his mother had been French. He'd attended Hogwarts in Percy's year, from the look of it—a Hufflepuff. Who would have guessed? He'd done a stint in professional Quidditch (beater), before retiring from the pitch to pursue law enforcement training. He was very good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, so he'd been pulled pretty soon after recruitment for special training. He'd defended plenty of important people both in England and abroad before signing on with the ministry a couple of years ago. Nothing in his service record was suspicious or even really that interesting, if Ron were being honest.

Vanderpool's file was longer, but a lot of it was redacted, given her status as an Unspeakable. She'd not always been one, though—apparently she used to teach at a wizarding university in Sweden, which was where she'd met  _Mister_  Vanderpool. She had two daughters, and after the declassification authorization came in, he noted that she'd also worked covertly for the Light during the war, mostly in helping identify and treat victims of the Imperius. It seemed she'd had a big hand in developing a potion that helped resist the effects. Ron was impressed, and it wasn't helping.

Thompson was one of the most accomplished trauma-care healers in the business, widely published, married to one Stanislav Jaeger, and a breeder of owls in his spare time. All very well and good, but not at all helpful to Ron. So from there, he'd turned his lens wider outwards, looking at the Unspeakables not directly involved in the case, including Lupin and Greengrass. 

He  _knew_  it wasn't Lupin, but due diligence was required. Greengrass held him up a little longer, mostly because her family had been close to known Dark wizards at one point, and she was already connected to the case, but… there was nothing else there to link her to the murders anyhow. Maybe, if he squinted, she could have a motive against Malfoy, because of Astoria's history with the bloke, but it was a stretch. Still, he didn't set aside her file like he did with the rest of them, keeping it with the stack on his desk, just in case. 

Beyond that, it was Vanderpool's colleagues in the research division, and then the Minister's top-cleared cabinet members to look at. It was a bit like walking on eggshells—most of these people were  _important_ , and so things had to be handled with utmost care, lest he bring down the wrath of some offended windbag on his department.

Well, if none of them panned out, he'd have to start looking at families and friends, and that would mean dispatching Aurors for surveillance. He'd better make damn sure there was nobody here that immediately raised suspicion first, because that was a lot of manpower, and they couldn't afford to waste it with the case still open and all over the news.

Some days, he thought fighting the war had been easier than trying to keep the peace peaceful.

* * *

_Spinner's End_

A few weeks into the necessary, if unfortunate, standstill in the investigation, Snape was back at his home on Spinner's End. He'd been a bit wary of Xenophilius's continued presence in the place, but the worst the elder Lovegood had done was alter the patterns on the wallpaper to truly hideous color combinations, and also reorganize everything behind the mirror in front of the bathroom sink, though he claimed that one was the work of Humdingers. Whatever the case, it had not been very difficult to turn the wallpaper back, though Severus felt oddly unconcerned with restoring it to its original state and had instead settled on something slightly less… morose-looking. Less steeped in uncomfortable memory, to be sure. It was an odd whim from a man who was usually not subject to whim at all—perhaps spending so much time around both Lovegoods was beginning to show.

Still, much as he wanted to resent it, he couldn't. Severus knew he was different now from the man he had been during the war, and though he viewed change with only slightly less adversity than his godson, he did admit that there was no denying those changes which had already taken place.

Perhaps not all of them were entirely negative.

And perhaps, more importantly, it was acceptable to acknowledge them in certain other ways. So he'd aired out the house for the first time in too long, adjusted a few rooms and fixtures, and even added a third guest bedroom, though why he would ever need such a thing was entirely beyond him. Well, perhaps if it needed to be used as a safehouse again—it was better to already be prepared. He'd also expanded the fireplace, and even now flames crackled in the hearth. Christmas approached, and though Snape as a rule had no real appreciation for festivities as such, it did remind him in a way almost nostalgic of Hogwarts.

Such thoughts were troubling not in and of themselves, but because he was  _having_  them. He'd never been a sentimental man, as such, with one glaring exception, but it seemed that things were rearranging themselves in the pattern of his thoughts, such that his monolithic reason for being faded a little, as it should have long ago, and others grew to take its place. A most disconcerting phenomenon, but even he would admit that he was a little  _tired_  of carrying the weight of that guilt. She would always be of great importance to him, but now he wondered if, in time, other things might not be allowed to occupy such great significance as well, or greater, though the thought felt close to blasphemy.

_Always_ , but perhaps not  _onl_ y.

Would it be so wrong?

Drawing himself from that line of thinking abruptly, he noted two things: firstly, the batch of Amortentia he was brewing for ministry stock—for lack of anything else to do—was turning color, and secondly, there was a knock at his front door. Xenophilius had claimed he was going to be out for the entire day, and he wouldn't have knocked besides. Warily, Severus approached the door, pulling it open a sliver before moving it wider.

Standing there, snowflakes in her hair and an obnoxiously-large blue scarf around her neck, was Luna Lovegood. She'd lived at his residence for a little while during the investigation, but was now renting her own small flat in London with the retainer the Ministry was paying her to be part of the task force, so he hadn't expected to see her. For a long moment, Severus said nothing, then stepped aside to allow her through. "Xenophilius is not here," he said, though in truth he supposed she must know this. It wasn't like the two of them to be unaware of what the other was doing. He supposed it made sense, given that they were all that counted as family for one another. The smile she gave him only confirmed it. She'd always had a sense of subtle knowing about her, and despite all appearances to the contrary, Severus was not the kind of person to dismiss that sort of thing.

"Actually, I came to see you." It's only then that he noticed she was carrying something—it looked to be a thick envelope. Without further preamble, she held it out to him. Severus's brows furrowed slightly, but he took it anyway, glancing up for a moment as if to inquire if it should be opened now or later. Her look conveyed the former, and so he did, turning over the heavy vellum card he pulled from the parchment. In gold and silver lettering was about the last sort of thing he expected to receive from anyone.

"It's only going to be a small gathering," Luna explained. "And not on Christmas itself, of course. But I do think it will be quite lovely." There was that subtle hint of secrecy again, and though he knew not what she was thinking, he could guess that it was nothing careless. "It would be very nice if you came."

"Are you delivering all of the invitations personally?" Severus questioned in response, arching a dark brow at her.

"Only the ones that might be declined," Luna replied easily, smiling and flicking a silvery glance at him from the corner of her eyes. Only from the side, because she was currently turned in curiosity to the potion in his cauldron. "I almost didn't recognize it," she murmured quietly, smiling softly to herself. There was something a little melancholy about the way she said it, and that, he thought he understood perfectly. "Has that ever happened to you, Severus?"

He was parting his lips to deny automatically—his  _Amortentia_  had only ever smelled like one thing, and only ever would, but on the intake of breath, the smell of it really hit his nose and the back of his tongue, and he blinked in surprise. Parchment. Old books. Ink. Something indefinably feminine, a light spice he wished he did not recognize immediately.

He supposed that, seeing his reaction, Luna did not actually require an answer. "You know, everyone from the investigation team will be there, at the party. It should be fun; more than the Ministry one, anyway."

Severus realized he didn't have much of a reply for that either. Luna only smiled and turned to leave. "I'll see you in a few days then, Severus. Don't forget to make your Nargle charms—they really like evergreen and mistletoe, you know."

* * *

_Diagon Alley, Bulstrode & Goyle's Confectionery_

Pansy pursed her lips, looking longingly at the lemon tart in the display case. Sighing shortly, she shook her head, and when it came time to order, she simply went with the usual tea: milk, no sugar. She exchanged a bit of small talk with Millicent while it was prepared, but in the end, took it to a corner table. The café was fairly busy at teatime, and it looked like she'd managed to find the only remaining one that wasn't outside. Given the winter chill, only a few days from Christmas, those weren't really an option anyway.

There was snow coming down outside, quite thickly, from the looks of things. Pansy wasted only a moment looking at it before pulling her black braid over her shoulder and her files from her bag. She had an actual lead this time, and that kind of work didn't even slow down for the holiday. It wasn't anything tremendous, but she had been the first person to notice it. She'd been chatting up the clerk at Flourish and Blotts when he told her that they'd had a few items of rare inventory stolen about a week ago. The books weren't especially valuable as black market items, so it was a little strange, to be sure. But then she'd done some digging, at it looked like the Diagon Alley theft was only one in a pattern of them, going back a few years. Libraries, bookstores, and some less-than-reputable dealers, actually, though she'd had to but her best journalistic skills to work to learn that one. It wasn't like Knockturn salesmen would just open up to you if you put on a friendly smile and fluttered your eyelashes a little.

The sound of clinking ceramic drew her attention across her little table, and she noticed that the very same lemon tart she'd been eyeing earlier was now being slid in her general direction. "You looked hungry," a voice informed her, the tone an even mix of amiable and a bit awkward. She followed the arm holding the plate up to the face of one Auror Ronald Weasley, and her mouth downturned slightly.

"Er… sorry. Didn't mean that to sound bad. I just, uh… well, consider it a bit of a bribe, yeah? I'd kind of like a place to sit, and there's not a lot left." Well, that was true.

"And so you choose to sit across from  _me_?" Her skepticism was perhaps not unwarranted—they had never been friends. Quite the opposite, actually. How often had she berated him and his friends and family in school for having less than she had? She hadn't even seen him in years, not until she went to the Aurors' Office with her recent discovery of the latest body. The killer seemed to be taking some time off, perhaps for the holiday or something, but she still didn't think she really had anything more to contribute. She'd told him everything she knew the first time.

He shrugged, half his mouth twisting upwards in a sort of perplexed half-grimace that she'd never really seen on anyone's face before. "It was you or some people on a date or a family with small children," he confessed, and a rather unladylike snort issued from her nose. Well, that was probably understandable. Though for some reason she'd just always assumed that he was one of those people who would like kids. Still not the same thing as choosing to barge in on a family, she supposed.

"Then allow me to spare you the horrors of being the third wheel," she deadpanned, and the weird half-grimace thing looked a little more like a smile. Weasley sat down across from her, his own pastry of choice apparently the strawberry Danish, and if the smell was anything to go by, he'd chosen coffee over tea. She glanced speculatively at the lemon tart again.

"You know, I don't think it's going to eat you," Weasley remarked conversationally. "I haven't done anything to it." He raised his eyebrows, then reached across and broke off a piece, popping it into his mouth before she could so much as protest his atrocious table manners. Pansy set her quill down at last and pulled the little plate the rest of the way across the table towards her.

"You're a boor, Ronald Weasley," she informed him, but still she hesitated. "I didn't think you'd  _done_ anything to it, I just… hear my mother telling me to mind my figure." She was a little irritated that she'd said that out loud, but it was the truth. She'd internalized the woman's nagging so badly that Mrs. Parkinson didn't even need to be around anymore; Pansy could criticize her own every move with a laser-guided precision.

This appeared to confuse Weasley, whom she suspected had never been told to eat less in his entire life. Probably something to do with being male, or having one of those warm, congenial families she could only make uneducated guesses about. Pansy suppressed a little flare of envy. "Dunno why," he replied. "Your figure looks fine to me." He shrugged; she blinked incredulously at him. Was that supposed to be a come-on? Pansy didn't think so, not from the way he was continuing as though he'd only given a basic observation, of a kind with 'it's snowing' or 'Dolores Umbridge is a terrible human being.'

"That for a story?" He was looking down at her parchments now, and she felt strangely self-conscious. Rarely did she share her work, even with her friends, keeping its nature rather ambiguous when asked. That was a mutual arrangement with herself and Draco—no talking about whatever it was that they did for work. It was a bit less normalized with others, but… she could be elusive when she wished to be. Yet… there was something so completely normal about this situation, something so easy about Weasley's demeanor, that her usual worries, about being judged or chided or somehow bothered about it, didn't really seem to hold any more water than a sieve.

"Yes. I'm looking into a string of book thefts. Nothing terribly earth-shattering, but I do believe they haven't been connected until now, so it feels nice to make a little headway." She paused to take a bite of her tart, reveling just a  _little_  bit in the taste of it. Millicent Bulstrode-Goyle knew how to make a pastry, and that was just a fact.

"Oh?" said Weasley, turning his head slightly sideways as though to get a look at what she'd written. Pansy rolled her eyes and turned the file so he could actually read it. "What made you link these together? They're all different places, times… the books are even different languages. Things go missing like this sometimes, you know." He seemed genuinely interested in what connection she'd intuited, and, well, it wasn't often that people were  _interested_  in the kinds of things Pansy got to write about.

"That's true, I suppose. But the books are all similar—old, not worth a lot for sale but rare, and usually at least somewhat religious in nature. So I asked around. It seems that, at the location of each theft, the books were stolen only shortly after they were received. It looks like someone was tracking them, and stole them when the likelihood of them being written off as 'missing,' not stolen, was greatest. Seems like a pattern to me, though of course I have to keep looking into it." She raised one shoulder in something like a shrug, brushing a loose piece of dark hair behind an ear.

"Huh." Weasley seemed to accept the inference. "Well, if you come up with anything else, bring it by the office. I'd say we'd look into it right away, but…" he trailed off and gave her a meaningful look, fixing her dark amber-colored eyes with his blue ones, and she understood immediately.

"But really you're not looking into anything else until those murders are solved."

Weasley sighed, taking another few gulps from his coffee. "Basically, yeah. It's been awful, honestly. I can't say a whole lot about it, you know, but… I think the consensus is the sooner things are damn well done, the better." Well, that obviously made sense. Pansy couldn't help but feel there was more to it, but Weasley kept the topic away from the murders after that, asking after mostly inconsequential things until he was done with his coffee and Danish, at which point he stood up.

"Well, thanks for tolerating me, Parkinson. I'll be out of your hair, then. Happy Christmas." He smiled, setting over his shoulders a cloak she had not seen him drape over the back of his seat.

"Right. Happy Christmas, Weasley."

* * *

_Muggle London, Luna Lovegood's Flat_

The gathering was, as promised, really just for the investigation team, as well as a few others, but all of them had been picked such that Severus did not need to wear any sort of glamour to disguise his identity, and could simply attend as himself. He had the distinct feeling that Miss Lovegood had intentionally so planned the event, and he wasn't quite sure how to interpret that knowledge. At any rate, it seemed to obligate him to attend, for at least a little while, and when he did arrive, he was not as put-upon to stay as he'd believed he would be.

Most of those in attendance at Luna's small flat were simply quietly talking by the lit fireplace, or else working in the kitchen. Occasionally, laughter would filter out from in there, but overall, the event was quiet without being staid, almost serene after the manner of the woman herself. The decorations were an even mix of traditional and whimsically-absurd, including the so-called Nargle charms she had mentioned, and he noted with narrowed eyes that a sprig of mistletoe was floating about, rarely settling over any heads but definitely something to be wary of all the same. At any rate it didn't seem inclined to be in his direction, and so he made a note of its existence and then turned his attention to the other occupants of the living room.

Draco was seated in an armchair, tumbler of firewhiskey in one hand and a book of some sort in another, his feet resting just in front of the mantel. Potter and Miss Greengrass were on the sofa, just far enough apart to maintain the illusion of close acquaintance, though other aspects of their body language spoke differently. The dining room table, through an open entranceway, was occupied by Weasley, Weasley, Zabini, and Thompson, the four apparently talking about something quite intently. An auditory inspection of the voices in the kitchen yielded Lupin, Miss Lovegood, and… Hermione.

The hostess of the gathering poked her head out from the aforementioned room, a large, dreamy smile on her face, one that seemed inexplicably to brighten when she spotted him, moving up to her eyes, if indeed such a thing were really possible. "Severus. It's good to see you! Please, make yourself at home."

At that point, another crown of hair, a brunette one, appeared next to Luna's, and Hermione also smiled, moving out of the kitchen to place what appeared to be a plate of baked goods on the end table near Potter's elbow. "Thanks, 'Mione," the bespectacled Auror murmured, immediately picking one up and biting into it.

It was all exceptionally warm and sentimental, and he should have disdained this, this setting where everyone seemed to be wearing some variation on the knit-sweater-and-wool-socks theme, sans of course Draco, who likely never would, and himself, but… for all its evident festivity, the gathering was not loud, not overcrowded, and not ostentatious in the slightest—which was to say that, despite himself, he could find no fault with it.

* * *

Luna exhaled in what was almost a hum, surveying her work with a little knot of gentle satisfaction just under her heart. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and that included the guest of honor who did not realize that he was—Severus. She'd known that the usual sorts of holiday things would be ill-done for the reticent Unspeakable, and so she'd intentionally cultivated an environment that she knew would appeal to his nature. This was really little different than all of these people being gathered together for the usual purposes, save that they were able to socialize without the pressure of the case hanging over their heads, and even the uncomfortable suspicion that one of them could be a murderer was dissipated under the warm glow of the event.

She'd managed to get a good laugh out of everyone when her little mistletoe sat itself over Harry and Daphne, the former turning about as red as a dirigible plum, and the latter highly amused. In the end, he'd just bussed her briefly on the cheek, to a gale of laughter from Ron and a few giggles from Hermione, even. That was about as energetic as things got, however, and the main mood of the night was one of relaxed amity, the company of good people who understood the burdens borne by one another. A chance to be reminded that they did not suffer alone, perhaps. Luna found that important.

But whereas Severus seemed to be amenable to the idea on a certain level, now occupying the back corner of the living room with her father and Lupin, there was someone who seemed to defy her every effort to make him understand that his pain need not be his alone. With that in mind, Luna took in a breath and turned, heading out onto her modest balcony. There was a two-seater swing on it, and a few varieties of plant, but nothing terribly unusual, unless one counted the colors and the string of actual pixie lights wound around the railing. It was Muggle London after all—she could not do anything overtly magical without risking discovery.

One half of the swing was occupied by the object of her current ruminations, and she took the other, initially silent. One thing she had learned about Draco was that he tended to put plenty of words in her mouth for her, and she need not do so immediately, only show him where he was incorrect. Luna knew he was not malicious in this, but that it was a defense mechanism, like the way a snake would hiss and puff itself up to appear larger and more dangerous to a perceived threat.

"I hope you're not here to tell me to go make nice with Weasels," he started, and Luna blinked slowly. He didn't really think of them that way anymore. She knew this. He may have even known that she knew it, but he was quite concerned with appearances, sometimes. She wondered how much longer it would take him to see that he needn't be—not with her.

Instead of replying verbally, Luna took her right hand and laid it over his left, where it was resting on the seat of the swing, slotting her fingers naturally into the gaps left by his. She felt more than saw him turn to look at her, something venomous no doubt poised on the very tip of his tongue. Something about how ridiculous she was, or how she should not touch him.

But the words never came, because she sent some of her magic through the contact, the way she always did, and that allowed them both to behave as though that had been the whole purpose of the gesture in the first place. Luna did not require this farce, but Draco still did, and she understood this, more than perhaps he knew. She wondered if he felt it, the way this little contact with him, skin to skin, lit up her nerves. She wondered if he quite perceived the way their magic twined together, meshing in a way that felt exactly the way it should. Magic always meshed, when it came into direct contact with other things, but never in her life had that sensation felt so natural as it did with him. To the othersight, it was a seamless weaving, green with blue-violet, gold with silver, twining and twisting until nearly inextricably bound. It almost hurt to let go… almost.

"One day," he said suddenly. "One day, I'm going to say something, or do something, and it's actually going to affect you." He turned his head to look at her profile, and so she turned hers as well, to meet her eyes. "I'm going to hurt you. I'm not good, and I'm not brave, and I'm  _certainly_  not sentimental. Even Severus has more sentiment than I do."

Luna tilted her head gently to the side, regarding him steadily. "I know."

"Then why do you… Merlin, Luna, why won't you just leave me alone?" Though the words themselves were certainly not what anyone wanted to hear from another person, the tone in which they were spoken was more honest confusion, with a slight hint of anxiety, than anything else, and that was quite something, for him. He rarely allowed his emotions to express themselves that clearly, after all.

She smiled softly. "Because I can see you, Draco. And I'm your friend anyway."

A multitude of expressions crossed his face then: further perplexity, a slow kind of half-comprehension, something darkening his eyes and quickening his breath. With his free hand, he reached over, the tips of his fingers brushing her cheek, leaving a trail of electrical sparks, almost, over her skin as they moved back to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She turned her face upwards as he lowered his head, her silvery eyes falling half-lidded. She heard his breathing hitch, and he swallowed thickly, the cartilage in his throat working up and down too quickly.

With a discontent sound, he stood abruptly, shaking himself. "Get out of my head," he told her, his tone taut with a combination of frustration and anger. "Just…  _stop_ , Lovegood. There's nothing here to save, nothing here to change. I'm fine being exactly what I am, so take your damn old magic and your ridiculous friendship and your…  _everything_  and sod off."

Without giving her time to respond, he yanked open the balcony door and went back inside.

Luna's eyes closed, and she was surprised to find that her breath shuddered when she tried to pull one into her lungs. This was what it felt like, then? To be hurt by another person. In all her life, she'd… the thought was brought up short when she felt something warm slide down her cheek. Lifting her hand to her face, she touched it for a moment, examining with a strange detachment the fact that her fingertips came away wet.

"You were not wrong, Draco Malfoy."


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Christmas, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little coda for the end of the last chapter, with what might be a surprise development.

After Malfoy's oddly-hasty exit from the party, the festivities had continued for a few more hours, though Hermione hadn't really noticed the passage of time, as such. She'd been caught up in a conversation with Severus and Lupin, about the latest issue of  _Brewmaster's Quarterly_ , the Potioneer's trade journal. Apparently, one of the researchers had discovered a fascinating new use for lacewing flies—the eggs rather than the flies themselves. It wasn't Lupin's area, but he was apparently interested in the particular application as an anticoagulant, and so had asked Severus how the researcher had come to that conclusion. It wasn't Hermione's area, either, so she mostly listened while he explained, though at some point, he'd gestured Luna over into the conversation as well, and between the two of them, there was enough technical jargon flying back and forth to fill a university lecture hall.

Fortunately, both herself and Lupin followed well enough, being generally knowledgeable people if not experts in the field. It was actually really enjoyable, because the sharp contrast in Severus and Luna's demeanors made the discussion at times comedic as well as informative.

It wasn't until Lupin yawned and excused himself to take up his cloak that she realized how late it was, already into the wee hours of the morning. Everyone else seemed to have left already, and she couldn't even recall their departures. With profuse apologies to Luna, who of course seemed to mind not at all, Hermione also prepared herself to leave. It was a bit of a walk to the nearest safe-spot for apparition (this was Muggle London, after all), and Hermione's flat had no fireplace for the Floo Network to connect to from Luna's, but it was no great trial to walk the few blocks.

Lupin had said his goodbyes and departed first, citing his need to get home to his wife and son. Hermione and Luna exchanged a hug and wishes for the holidays, and to Hermione's surprise, Luna  _also_  hugged Severus, who looked understandably shocked and a little perturbed, but not at all upset, even patting her gently—and very awkwardly—on the back before she let go, murmuring to him something that Hermione could not hear. She smothered a laugh at the look on his face, but also suppressed the slightest flare of jealousy. Luna was so…  _free_ , with her affections, as though the things that stopped other people from reaching out to one another just didn't exist for her, and she had the kind of demeanor that made it almost impossible to take real offense at it. If Hermione had tried that… well, she didn't think it would go so well.

Luna politely but insistently ushered them both out the door thereafter, and it was thusly that Hermione found herself standing on the welcome mat (teal and fuzzy-looking), right next to Severus. There was something a little surreal about the situation, being able to look out and see the snow quietly falling to the ground, lit up by the Muggle Christmas lights, standing on this ridiculous mat outside the flat of an old friend, with the least-likely person to ever have attended a holiday party.

And yet, she didn't think she wanted it any other way.

"Can I… walk with you to the apparation point?" Hermione figured it wasn't too great an imposition, considering they both seemed to be going that way anyhow, but she was a little tired of all the things she wasn't saying. All the things she suspected— _hoped_ —he wasn't saying, but wanted to. Oh, how she hoped. Because every new glimpse she was allowed of this man, every little piece of himself he let her see, drew her closer to him. This wasn't just a physical attraction anymore, and she wanted to see what it would become, if she gave it a chance. If they did.

And if she wanted a shot at that, she was going to have to stop leaving so many things unsaid.

She heard him intake a breath, and the delay of a few seconds made her wonder if he would refuse. "Of course." He nodded slightly, and gestured for her to precede him down the stairs.

As soon as they were out on the sidewalk proper, however, she dropped back to walk beside him, sneaking glances up at his profile. She felt like she was fourteen again, deep in the throes of a  _crush_ , unsure if she wanted to keep it to herself or try and let him know. Of course, at fourteen, Hermione had chosen very consciously to keep it very much to herself, because it had been on this same man, in that silly way that schoolgirls sometimes had. She would have never expected even some thread of that feeling to endure this long, nor to transform as it did. But whatever had happened, this was where she was now, emotionally speaking, and she wasn't the kind of person who ignored her feelings.

So… she was going to need a plan. Hermione's mind did  _rational_  exceptionally well. It did  _organized_  and  _efficient_  and  _in control_. She would have to plan around Severus's personality as well as she could. She'd have to be slow, meticulous, give him the chance to see that this was worth the risk.  _If_  it was something he wanted at all. After the Ministry party, she thought that maybe it might be, and she was willing to invest the time and effort to find out. Because if it was… her lower belly filled with a warm, tingly sensation, and she smiled to herself.

"Something amuses you?" He sounded unfazed as ever, and when she looked up and over at his face, he had one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. It just made her smile wider, and he blinked down at her in a sanguine sort of fashion.

"Not really," she confessed, but she didn't elaborate, instead allowing her eyes to wander the London scenery. Feeling a little bold, and, okay, maybe a  _little_  bit warm and fuzzy from the Christmas drinks, Hermione decided that an excellent first step in her plan would be to test where exactly Severus's threshold of comfort was. So she'd know where to start.

This in mind, she casually looped her arm through his as they walked, choosing not to look at his face but continue observing the lights and the snow and the rest of it, as though she hadn't even thought overmuch about what she'd just done, or hadn't even noticed. A ridiculous notion, of course, because neither of them was the sort to do something like that casually. She felt him stiffen, but he seemed to take his cue from her, and said or did nothing to acknowledge it. Perhaps he simply thought he could deal with it, if he could deal with being hugged. Hermione had the sudden urge to thank Luna for that, a much preferable change from her earlier envy. If Luna could touch Severus in such a benign, affectionate way, so could she.

"What did she tell you, on the way out? Luna, I mean?" Hermione chanced a glance at his face, which had long since lost any trace of discomfort he might have been feeling. Severus was especially good at that.

"Nothing of significance," he replied, and she wondered if it were true.

But their time together drew to a close, and it was with more than a little disappointment that Hermione realized they had reached the apparation point. Sighing softly, she relinquished her hold on his arm and turned to face him. "…I guess this is it." She really needed to work on that, because stating the plainly-obvious was not going to do her any good in his estimation. Or her own, for that matter; she usually hated it when people did so to her.

He said nothing, and she waited a few seconds, hoping that he might change his mind on that. There were snowflakes landing in his hair, which, apart from the silver streaks at each temple, was as black as ink. The contrast was striking. When he continued not to speak, she smiled slightly awkwardly and took a step back. "Well… good night then, Severus." She was half turned away by the time she felt his hand encircle her wrist, his grip gentle, but firm enough to remain there against her momentum away. Surprised, she blinked and turned back towards him.

"I…" For perhaps the fist time in her memory, Severus Snape seemed to be struggling with his words. Her eyes met his dark ones, fathomless and like chips of obsidian, the way they reflected the streetlights. There was something in them, or maybe she was imagining it, but if she were, then it was the same thing she'd imagined at the Ministry party, and she wanted to know if it was really there.

Slowly, just as slowly as she'd reached out for him that day, Hermione raised herself onto her toes, looking for any sign from him that she should stop, back off, or otherwise desist, but Severus seemed to be frozen in place, unmoving, even when she placed a hand on either of his shoulders. Swallowing thickly, Hermione noted that her breath was coming from her in unsteady little clouds of air, visible from the winter chill, and that his were just as irregular. Somehow, that made her feel much better about his lack of other reaction, and she closed the remaining inches, just barely brushing her lips over his, once, twice. On the third pass, she actually committed to it, tenderly moving her mouth over his own, surprised enough to sigh softly when he responded, just briefly, just once.

She fell back onto her heels, her face hot and quite possibly deep crimson. "I—" His left index finger cut the sentence off, pressing gently over her mouth in the universal signal for silence.

"It would be a waste of you, Hermione," he said, his tone one she had never heard out of him before. It sounded…  _melancholy_. So surprised was she that even when he stepped back and apparated away in one fluid motion, she was unable to react.

When she did return to herself, Hermione smiled. Oh, certainly, it was not the reaction she'd been hoping for, but it wasn't nothing. She hadn't just been conjuring that look in his eye—there was really something there. Convincing him it was worth acknowledging would hardly be easy, but Hermione Granger never turned down a challenge.


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Captives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron finds himself in a bit of a bind.

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Interview Room One_

Three months later, and Ron still wasn't sure whether to be relieved or even more frustrated. The murders had stopped, seemingly for no reason at all, and there hadn't been a new body yet this year, even. Some people were saying that the terror was over, that the murderer must have been killed or arrested for something else or died naturally or whatever other thing made them feel safest. 

Wizarding Britain at large seemed to have gone back mostly to normal—at least the public had. But Ron wasn't so sure that was called for. Everything about this person was too… fanatic for that, at least as far as he could tell. They weren't that deliberate; whomever committed the murders definitely had an aspect of overindulgence in sadism or  _something_ , if he really got off on it like Hermione said he did, but Ron was pretty sure a person like this was still capable of planning, of stopping himself if he needed to lay low for a while or the plan had changed.

And Ron didn't doubt there was a plan. It was in the slow emergence of the clues, the way he felt led along by the nose towards some conclusion he couldn't quite see yet. It was too organized to cut off so suddenly without a reason, and because of that, this silence only made him worry that what came after it would be somehow worse. Like this guy was preparing for something.

The task force seemed to mostly agree with him, and it was generally accepted that they could not rest now, not when they had an opportunity to find their answers before anything else bad happened. Of course, the group couldn't continue indefinitely; they all had other jobs to attend to, but each of them worked on the case whenever possible. Shacklebolt's schedule had been filled with diplomatic trips lately, and so Walsh had been in and out of the office with no real regularity. Hilde had research obligations, but she was around. Hermione and Snape—Severus, he had to remind himself, though he wasn't sure he could bring himself to use it in conversation just yet—spent most of their time in Alexandria, but for the case itself. Malfoy was working out of his home, apparently, and Thompson was back at St. Mungo's until they needed him for anything. Overall, most of them still worked on the case, just not all together.

That had its advantages, too—he'd been able to go through all their files and information, cross-reference estimated times for the killings and body dumps, and check these times against the alibis of the people on his own team. Everyone checked out for the most part, all having been confirmed to be at places away from the sites of the kidnaps and killings on at least one or two occasions. They likely had been for all of them, of course, but Ron only counted those times when someone else could testify to their whereabouts. The alibis had to be solid.

Having cleared all of them on those grounds, and on grounds of seeing no motive in anything he'd looked at—financial records, psychological evaluations, background checks, and interviews with friends and family members—he finally felt comfortable moving further out in his search, to other people who could potentially have accessed Draco's hair. 

Apparently, there was a small stock of hair belonging to all of the Unspeakables, in case of the need for one to impersonate another in the course of a mission for whatever reason. A little weird, but when you did a lot of undercover work, he could see the use. The number of people who had access to the storage was small, but he knew he had to take into account the possibility that someone had been forced to open it under  _Imperio_. Still, he had to start somewhere, and that was with the other people who could access the Department of Mysteries storage.

"Thanks for coming in, Daphne." Ron took an uncomfortable pause just before her name, unsure if he should use the more formal 'Miss Greengrass' or not, since this was an investigation. Still, she was bloody well seeing his best mate; it was more awkward and uncomfortable to be too formal, he thought, even considering the situation, which was already pretty bloody awkward. But he'd already been through all of this with his friends and closest coworkers, so he could handle it by this point, and still maintain enough impartiality to make sure he did this all properly.

She didn't seem to mind his decision. "It's not a problem, Ron. I understand why you need to do this." He nodded, his face grim, and flipped open the file in front of him.

"I have to ask for the record," he said, referring to the fact that the conversation was being recorded by a spell setup in the interrogation room. Carefully, he laid out snapshots of all the victims' faces, flinching inwardly when he reached Astoria's. There were two dozen in total. Twenty-four women, in about a year, all told. His stomach would have rolled at the thought, were he any less experienced with his work.

"Do you know any of these women personally?"

She nodded slightly, her expression unreadable. "I do. This young woman here is my little sister." To her credit, her voice only wavered slightly on the word  _sister_ , though her facial expression did not change. "Astoria."

"And where were you, on the night she disappeared?"

* * *

_Auror Weasley's Office_

About an hour later, Ron was back in his small office space, filing away the documentation of his interview with Daphne. He had to admit, the more time he spent with her, the more impressed he was. He supposed he could understand how she'd stuck around the Department of Mysteries so long—she hadn't once so much as teared up talking about her sister, and she'd revealed that she'd taken down meticulous notes on everything she could remember that might be of relevance on Astoria's death, from the day she'd learned about it up until now. There wasn't a lot there that he didn't already know, but he added her notes to her deposition anyway. Better to have redundant documentation than not enough.

He worked through lunch, but it wasn't until midafternoon tea came around that his peace was disturbed. A tapping at the window prompted him to cease dictating to his quill and turn around. A large tawny owl sat on his sill, a letter attached to its leg. That was a little irregular, since most of his work information came through memo and his family usually just flooed his office fireplace if they needed him for some reason, but owls weren't entirely unheard of. Crossing to the window, he opened it to admit the bird, absently fishing in one of his many robe pockets for a treat.

His first guess was that the letter must be an update from Hermione, but the handwriting was unknown to him, the letters large, loopy, and distinctly feminine. Some scent clung to it, too, just lightly, but faintly familiar, though he could not place it. His brows knitting together, Ron turned it over, ran a couple curse-detection spells he'd picked up from Bill, all of which came up negative. It was indeed addressed to him, so he opened it, noting only absently when the owl flew away, as though not expecting a written reply from him.

_Weasley—_

_If you'll remember properly, and I'm sure you will, we met by coincidence around Christmas last year. You told me that if anything came of that investigation I was doing on the book thefts, I should let you know. Well… something has come of it. I can't go into detail here, but I'll meet you at my flat at 5pm today. I've enclosed the address. It's important, or I wouldn't ask._

_—PP_

PP? He would not have expected her to sign a letter with initials only. Actually, that was about the least strange thing about the whole business, but he found himself believing her anyway. He wasn't sure why she couldn't just come by his office and give him the information, but he remembered how uncomfortable she'd seemed, when she'd shown up to deliver the evidence for the murder case. He ungenerously thought it might have something to do with the fact that her family had Death Eater sympathies in the war, but pushed the thought aside. Maybe she just had a taste for the dramatic. Either way, he should probably go. He could send one of the junior Aurors to take care of it, but… that felt a little gauche.

Well, stranger things had happened than Ronald Weasley paying a visit to Pansy Parkinson's flat, right?

Or at least that was what he thought to himself as he stepped into the fireplace, tossing the floo powder and enunciating carefully the address she'd given him. The embers were low in the fireplace he stepped out of, and he took a moment to glance around. It was a little less tidy than he'd expected, actually, but it had a distinctly lived-in feel to it. Her desk, which sat in front of the room's only window, was perhaps the messiest part, with parchments piled haphazardly here and there, a quill perched upright in its inkwell. It was dark purple, he noticed.

But the room was bereft of occupants. Perhaps she was in the loo? "Parkinson?" he called, taking a few more steps inside. "Oi, Parkinson. It's Weasley."

Ron had no time to react when something subtly shifted in the air behind him.

"Stupefy."

His world went dark.

* * *

_Location Unknown_

When Ron was next aware of himself, he became conscious of a splitting pain in his head. With a muffled groan, he rolled onto his side and tried to crack his eyes open, only to blink several times to clear his vision. It was dark, and difficult to make anything out, but it smelled… musty. Like a poorly-used attic or something.

"Oh, thank Merlin. I thought you might be dead."  
The voice snapped his attention to his left, and he squinted through the gloom, just able to make out the faint lines of a silhouette. It sounded kind of familiar though—Ron started to force himself upright, bracing his hand against the floor, only to cut his palm on something sharp.

"Bloody hell—"

"Careful, Weasley. You might need that hand." The tone, he recognized much more easily. There was a clear coating of snideness, and he was used to snideness from Pansy Parkinson. Not so usual was the strange mix of fear and relief that underlay it. With his good hand, he felt around in his pockets, but of course they'd taken his wand… whoever 'they' were. Muttering under his breath, he produced a wandless  _Lumos_ , brightening their surroundings until he could see much more clearly.

"Parkinson? What's going on?" She was sitting against a bare wall on the other side of the very small room they were in—it might actually have been a large closet rather than a proper room. There was a drying cut along one of her cheekbones, and another on her forehead, and her robes were dirty, but she didn't appear to be particularly injured otherwise.

She blinked at him, one corner of her mouth twisting into a wry sort of grimace. "Well, I thought you'd have put it together by now. What brought you to my flat in the first place? I'm assuming that's where they took you from."

Ron really wished she'd just  _told_  him, rather than making him guess, but then he thought about it and realized he really did already know. "Bloody hell, are you telling me this is all about some missing books?"

She snorted, but now that he could see her better, he could tell that there was actually a persistent, fine tremor running through her body, and that she was wearing her blasé attitude like armor. She was afraid, and frankly, he couldn't blame her in the least. "Not really. It's about what the sale of missing books was _funding_. And not just the books—magical antiquities of all kinds, disappearing in shipment. Showing up at certain underground auctions. Which I may have attended. And, you know, tailed some auctioneers from afterwards."

He wasn't sure if he thought that was really clever or really stupid of her. Maybe it was a little bit of both, especially since it seemed to have landed them here. Ron shifted, wincing when his cut hand brushed the floor again. He wished he could heal wandlessly, or indeed that he were any good at healing at all. But it just wasn't in his skillset, and he wasn't sure if she knew any wandless at all. Most people didn't.

"So who is it?" If they had a hope of getting out of here, he had to know what they were dealing with.

"You really don't waste any time on panic, do you?"

"Not anymore. Unless it's spiders. Bloody eight-legged bastards." He hadn't actually meant to tell her that, but she surprised him with a short bark of laughter. It wasn't a feminine sound at all, actually, and it made him smile, for some reason. But of course, their collective mirth faded quickly.

"I don't know what they're called," she admitted, "but the front they were using for the sales was a commodities company. High-end stuff, but discreet. There's dozens of businesses like that, at least that I know of." She pursed her lips. "This one's called  _La Maison des Sept Flèches_. Shortlisted as  _La Maison_. I think my mother bought her silverware from them." She looked vaguely irritated.

"Never heard of them," Ron confessed.

She shook her head. "You wouldn't have. They specialize in finding legacy items for the obscenely rich and charging exorbitant prices for things that belonged to famous dead people." Now she  _definitely_  seemed annoyed. "The silverware supposedly belonged to Grindelwald."

"Oh." Well, he certainly would not have heard of them then. His family was about the opposite of 'obscenely rich,' and both of them knew it. "So you don't know who they're fronting for, but do you know  _what_? S'not just any enterprise that would kidnap a person for catching on to their below-board activities."

Pansy had opened her mouth to reply when they could hear the distinct sound of approaching footsteps. "Kill the light," she hissed softly, and Ron obeyed, putting it out with a quick  _Nox_  and settling back against the wall behind him, slumping considerably so as to exaggerate his state of injury and fatigue. Pansy, he noted, was already doing the same, letting her hair come forward and curtain her face, her features morphing into the cast of a scared, but cowed and helpless, woman. It was a strange look for her, he thought.

The footsteps came to a halt outside their door, and Ron heard the sound of a key being turned in a lock, and the small sliver of light beneath the wooden slab became a beam and then a full rectangle as it was opened inwards. Pansy made a small sound and pretended to flinch back from the sudden illumination in their dark room, or maybe she wasn't pretending. He really couldn't tell. Ron's eyes were still adjusted from the spell, but he made a show of blinking dumbly a few times anyway.

Two men entered. The one in front was short and squat, with a thin-featured face that reminded Ron a little bit of Scabb—Pettigrew. Ratlike in a similar way. His hair was in greying wisps atop his head, and he wore a deep blue cloak with a cowl, currently resting down around his shoulders. He had this look to him like he'd eaten something sour. The other man was younger, having a look of distinction to him anyway. A smooth-featured face, deep-set, hooded eyes, and sandy-colored hair. Handsome enough, but he could have been anyone on the street, with his neutrally-hued robes of the same dark blue, his cowl also serving no purpose at the moment.

He said something to the rat man in French, in the smooth, rolling way of a native speaker. Ron knew a few words and phrases, mostly because of Fleur, but it wasn't nearly enough to follow. All he got was that the man was most likely enquiring about him. It seemed confirmed when the rat-man turned to him, squinting his eyes.

" _Oui. Qui est lui_."

Well, he knew what that meant. The taller man looked upset by something, his face twisting into something with 'displeased' written all over it, displeased in that sort of refined rich people sense, where it was at least partially covered with a veneer of calm for the sake of decorum. Ron was, of course, aware that other people could do this too, but it was a form of expression he had always associated with Slytherins and their ilk.

There was an exchange much too fast for him to have hope of following, and then the rat-man turned to speak to him. "Most irregular. You will have to forgive my friend. He is not happy that our company is so… famous. We were expecting someone rather less  _important_ , to have time to waste on such a minor matter. But, well… minor or not, we can't let this get out. You understand." His voice was like oil and vinegar: a deceptive slickness underlaid with something as sour as his expression.

"Who are you people? Do you always kidnap journalists who get suspicious?" Ron doubted they were likely to answer his questions, but anything he could do to make them say anything at all had the potential to help.

It worked, if one counted being heavily backhanded across the face as a form of answer. The younger man's knuckles cracked across his cheek, and he felt a distinct sting where what must have been a ring tore into his skin. Tightening his jaw, Ron forewent the pretense of sluggishness and surged to his feet, using his upward momentum to slam his own fist into the man's jaw. Wizard he might be, but magic wasn't always necessary.

The young man dropped, holding his jaw with a pained sound. Ron was about to kick him, when he was hit from the side with a  _Petrificus_. And there, for now, ended his ambitions of escaping. The rat-man smiled thinly, stowing his wand back in his sleeve, shaking his head and tutting at his young partner, who was now yelling in slurred French, a result, no doubt, of the injury to his mandible.

"Oh, do shut up, Pierre. Honestly, I'm not sure why you weren't expecting that. You have to learn to think ahead. Come, he'll want a report."

On the way out of the room, Pierre continued to glower at Ron, while the rat-man bore an amused glint to his eyes. The door shut with a certain finality behind them, and Ron heard the lock re-engage.

"Well, that was pointless," he muttered, still petrified in his spot on the floor.

"Not entirely," said a female voice from beside him. Someone touched his shoulder softly, and he realized it was Pansy. She'd not uttered a peep the whole time, something that was probably wiser than he'd been.

"I speak French."

* * *

It took them three days to formulate an escape plan. During that time, they were visited twice more by the rat-man. Once, he brought his young associate with him, and another time, he came with two large men, clearly bodyguards or something of the sort. Though it was difficult to get anything out of him, Ron learned that Pansy had chosen to play dumb right from the start, meaning that the men had not guessed she could possibly speak French, and since Ron  _really_  couldn't, they weren't the most careful about speaking the language, even in the room. Not that they gave away anything too important, but a few details did slip out here and there, especially when Ron went out of his way to agitate Pierre again on the third day.

"He's going to leave scars on your face, with that stupid ring." Pansy used a handkerchief to dab away the blood on Ron's face. Her mouth was downturned, and she shook her head at him. "You shouldn't piss him off like that; it's only making things worse."

"Actually," Ron said, a smile spreading over his face despite the twinge of pain it caused, "it's making them much better." At her strange look, he explained. "You aristocratic types have house regalia and stuff, right? Like crests and seals and all that?" Actually, he was pretty sure the Weasleys probably used to, but they hadn't given a damn in so many generations it was all likely shut up in a dark attic somewhere, and no one would ever bother to go looking.

"You think it was a signet ring?" To her credit, she caught on quickly.

"I did. Now I  _know_ , and I got a pretty good look at it when it came swinging for my face." He huffed something like a laugh, but she only pursed her lips together.

"Clever, Weasley. But I'm serious—you might scar from this."

He shrugged. "So? Never cared much for my face. 'Sides, might win me some attention; Bill's did," he joked. It wasn't like he was  _glad_  to have scar-level wounds or anything, he just didn't really have any vanity. He never had.

Pansy sniffed. "There's nothing wrong with your face, Weasley. Your head, on the other hand, probably ought to get checked." She withdrew, stashing the now bloody handkerchief in a pocket. "Now, I'm really hoping we have some kind of way out of here, because I don't like our chances of surviving a couple more days. Not with how angry you made him that time."

She was right about one thing—they were likely to outlive their usefulness soon. The last visit had been for the purpose of collecting hair from both of them, which meant that they'd probably be attempting to impersonate them soon, for some reason. Himself, Ron could kind of understand. He was an Auror, he had access to sensitive case information and important people. But Parkinson? He knew she worked for the  _Prophet_ , but there were easier ways to get into that place than to kidnap a journalist. Maybe it was just in case or something. Ron didn't know as much as he'd like about this situation, but all the same, he knew they couldn't chance staying any longer. He might have, if he were by himself, but she was a civilian—he couldn't risk her life on the off-chance he'd be able to collect a little more information. Most of it would be useless to him without her to translate, anyway.

"Okay, well, here's what we're going to do…"

* * *

Pansy had to admit that she wasn't entirely sure about the plan. But she  _also_  had to admit that it was far better than anything she could come up with, so they would have to go with it and hope for the best. She wasn't really the hoping type, herself, but in this situation, it seemed called for, if only because there wasn't really a good alternative.

She and Weasley were currently booking it at maximum sprint down a hallway in… wherever they were being kept. Well, she was running as fast as she could, but she felt like maybe he was actually keeping pace with her rather than going as quickly as he was able. 

She probably wouldn't ever say it, but she was grateful for that. If their situations had been reversed… she honestly might have just left him behind to save herself, but it was plain as day that he wasn't like that. There wasn't really any time for guilt at the moment, though; she had to spend all her energy pumping her legs and not running headlong into the walls when they took a sharp turn.

"This place is a maze!" she complained between rapid breaths. Weasley just grimaced. She had no idea if he knew where they were going, but she sure didn't. They approached the next corner, and she was about to round it to the left when he held out his arm to stop her. 

Drawing up to a halt, Pansy placed her hands on her knees and bent double, gasping to try and regain her breath. She wasn't out of shape, exactly, but she definitely didn't make a habit of dead-sprinting around. The first part, she'd had well in-hand. Fake an injury, helpless damsel routine. Easy as anything. The guard who'd been left behind to check her for injuries wasn't too hard for her and Weasley to overpower together, either, and the Auror now held his wand, since they'd agreed it would be more useful for him to have it. He was the one with the training, after all.

Glancing around the corner, Weasley breathed a sigh, turning to her with a grin. "Window," he explained, and she stuck her head out past the wall to confirm.

There it was. If they could just reach the end of the hall, they had a chance of getting out of this alive.

As one, they surged forward, Weasley holding his stolen wand at the ready, streaking past various other intersections in their single-minded pursuit of escape. It wouldn't be long before they were discovered missing, and they had to take this chance now, or risk whatever method their captors would use to dispose of them. They reached the window, and Weasley unlocked it with an  _Alohamora_ , reaching down to haul it open. Almost there—

From the corner of her eye, Pansy saw a light. It was a spell of some kind, she recognized that instinctively. Weasley clearly hadn't seen it, but he was directly in its path. With no time to think, Pansy simply acted, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him backwards with strength that surprised her.

"Get down!" the voice was hers, but she didn't remember shouting. She would never forget, however, the pain that blossomed in her side as the spell grazed her abdomen. It felt an awful lot like she imagined being set on fire would, and sapped her strength, buckling her knees beneath her and sending her to the ground, unable even to put her hands out to break her fall. She heard shouting, saw more flashes of magic, and then she knew nothing at all.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good Ravenclaw always has a plan.

_St. Mungo's Hospital, Private Wing_

"Is she going to be all right?"

Ron lifted his head from where he'd been cradling it in his hands, his eyes locking with the sharp grey of Malfoy's. He swallowed—where he'd expected to find customary arrogance and coldness, there was something almost unbearably human. The other man's brows were drawn together, his mouth compressed into a narrow scowl, but the shadow behind his eyes was unmistakable.

"I dunno." The words dropped like stones, and he shifted in the uncomfortable chair, feeling the thinly-upholstered wood creak beneath him. He didn't recall how long he'd been sitting in it. "It wasn't... it wasn't a killing curse. But it wasn't anything I'd ever seen before, either."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and he nodded tightly, taking the few steps forward to reach the other seat in the hall, next to Ron's. He sat, blooming white paling his knuckles as his hands clenched over the arms of the chair. An ominous sound hinted at the force of the grip, at least until it eased fractionally. A heavy breath left his lungs, and Ron hadn't known that Malfoys  _sighed_ , but it seemed that this one did.

"You were with her?" The question was tight, like elastic on the verge of snapping.

Ron nodded, his chin drooping wearily towards his chest, and though they both stared at the wall in front of them, he figured Malfoy probably registered the motion. "Yeah. She uh... she saved me." He heard the bewilderment in his own tone with a detachment unlike himself. But it was bewildering, wasn't it? What reason had she to take a hit for him? He'd done her no favors, they weren't friends, she owed him nothing. There didn't seem to be a reason for what she'd done, and Ron's spare impressions of Pansy Parkinson included the observation that she wasn't the kind of frivolous person who did things without a reason. 

He'd been circling around the point in his own head for... well, it felt like it had been a while now, anyway.

"Tell me what happened."

Ron scrubbed a hand down his face. "I guess... it probably started around Christmas."

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Room 342_

Ron's official debrief did not occur until three days after he had been found, Pansy Parkinson of all people carefully carried over his shoulder, having apparated directly to Luna's flat. A serious risk, considering it was in Muggle London, but an understandable one, given the circumstances. By now, Hermione and Severus had found and obliviated all of the witnesses, and the event was carefully sunk below the notice of anyone other than themselves and the upper echelons of the Ministry.

After Luna had stabilized her, Pansy had been moved to a private wing at St. Mungo's and placed under Healer Thompson's direct supervision. Ron and Draco had spent most of the next two days in hospital, until Ron had been called away by the pressing need to report.  
And it had been quite the report. His description of the rat-faced man had matched Severus's recollection of the person who'd originally hexed Draco, which led Hermione to believe that whatever organization this  _La Maison_  actually was, they were involved in far more than just the movement of black market assets. Likely, that business was merely a front and a source of funding for whatever they were actually doing.

Frustratingly, however,  _that_  was less clear. To Hermione, it all hinged on a certain fact: had Pansy sent the letter to Ron that bore her handwriting, or had someone else? Because if she had sent it herself, then chances were Ron had simply been caught up in the events, and Hermione would willingly—if somewhat grudgingly—put it down to chance that this had occurred when they were all neck-deep in the largest-scale set of events since Voldemort.

But if someone else had sent it, as a lure, then it was much more likely that Ron was the one they were really after, and that they had such a good line on information about the group that they had known he was involved, however barely, in Pansy's investigation of them. 

The connection seemed almost too tenuous to be real, but when she'd ventured her hypothesis to Severus, he'd merely raised an eyebrow at her, as though it had been an obvious possibility the whole time, and remarked that a group with the resources to be infiltrating the investigation would have more than enough to keep tabs on who each of them interacted with and what they did even away from the Ministry.

He was right, of course. Hermione knew he was. She may have never been a spy, she might not be able to carry out such surveillance herself, but she knew that, magically, it was possible.

It was terrifying to think that an organization of that scale was at work though. It reminded her of things she'd told herself she was finished dealing with. But the terror was only part of it.

The door to her borrowed office opened, and Severus let himself in, removing his dark cloak and hanging it over a hook next to the door, beside hers. She hated it a little bit, how something as trivial as that could pull at something in her chest. The mere idea of him—of  _them_ —had taken on a distracting sort of weight in her mind, especially since Christmas. 

Not that he'd given it any reason to, of course, and that was really the worst part. Severus didn't have to  _try_  to interest her, didn't have to tell anecdotes or make jokes or, Merlin forbid,  _flirt_. All he had to do was  _be_ , and it became nearly impossible to tear her attention away.

She knew she was being terribly transparent about this, in some ways, though she was trying not to be, out of respect for his own current attitude towards her attention. And because she tried, he gracefully ignored it when she failed, like now, when she was staring at him without really intending to.

Clearing her throat, she forced her eyes down to the work in front of her. She hadn't given up on Severus Snape, but she knew she needed time to formulate the right plan. Making doe-eyes at him might have been enough for some other man, but not for him. Nor was simply pandering to his interests, or flattery, or any of the other half-dozen things she'd ever read about in  _Witch Weekly_. Or, well... seen branded across the covers, anyway. She'd never actually—

"Her sleep seems to be enforced by whatever curse was cast." Severus's voice, soft as velvet, cut through her jumbled thoughts like a knife despite its tone. Forcing herself to shove the mess of feelings aside for the moment, she raised her eyes to him. He'd taken a seat on the other side of the desk, the harshness of his black attire a surreal contrast to the soft palette of the room itself.

Her lips pursed. "Then there's no way to find out if everything's connected."

He tilted his head to the side. "Not necessarily. But in any case, I believe it is best, for the moment, to proceed as though they were. It may be that Mr. Weasley and Miss Parkinson's escape provides, if nothing else, a new perspective from which to view the situation."

Hermione nodded, switching into a much more businesslike mode of thinking, turning the words over in her head, trying to orient herself so that she could see from this perspective he spoke of. She might have outpaced him in her knowledge of her field, but she had to acknowledge that Severus still had a great deal to teach regarding most everything else, and she was fortunate to be able to learn from him in this way.

Something clicked. "This could explain how the murderer has gone without capture for so long. If there's really a whole organization behind all of this, then the control he exhibits might be the result of external pressure, rather than something he does himself." The utter lack of evidence at any of the discovery sites had always seemed at odds with how brutally the women were killed. But maybe the one was the organization, and the other the killer.

Severus inclined his head, but said nothing further, a sure indication that she hadn't yet reached the point he wanted her to. Hermione frowned thoughtfully, scanning over what she knew of the case, and slowly, a different image began to form. "But... there's no reason for an organization to sponsor a serial killer. It doesn't get them anything."

"Doesn't it?" The prompt was slow, just a feather-light nudge. While sometimes she still felt like he shredded her ideas with all the force of an intellectual typhoon, this was more common now. Questions, sometimes with obvious answers and sometimes without, all in the interest of prompting her to make the adjustments herself.

"Attention. It gets them attention." Her eyes lit with the discovery, and she continued, spinning the thought out like thread from a spool. "They would have to have decided they were ready for it. That there was something they  _wanted_  people to pay attention to. The business side of  _La Maison_  proves that they can be subtle, go unnoticed, bury certain connections. They wanted us to focus on the murders, and on..." She glanced down to the papers in front of her. "The messages."

She thought she caught a glint of satisfaction in Severus's black eyes. "And how does the fact that the organization wanted to draw our attention there change what the message means?"

That was harder to say. Hermione considered it for a moment. The apocalypse motifs, attributed to an individual killer, could have meant anything, or nothing at all. A form of ego trip or an assertion of power; he was ending the lives of his victims, perhaps he believed they would be renewed in death or had a messianic complex of that kind. Maybe he was simply insane or delusional, or one of those strange people who believed the end of the world was immanent.

But from a group... "It means they think the world will end? A cult?" It was the most obvious explanation, as far as she could tell. Unless...

"Or," Severus finished her thought for her, "they intend to bring it about themselves."

* * *

_St. Mungo's Hospital, Private Wing_

Draco was certain that he looked like he was asleep, given the way his head was tipped back against the wall behind him, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. He'd been in the same spot for the better part of a week by this point, albeit for different reasons as time wore on. For the first day, he'd waited for news—what Pansy's condition was, how she'd been hurt in the first place. The second and third days, he'd been waiting for her to wake up.  
Now he was simply waiting for something,  _anything_ , to change.

He knew who was approaching him by the sound of the treads. Light over the ground, mere whispers, as though the walker were halfway to floating. He swallowed thickly, his throat tight, and squeezed his eyes more firmly shut. He didn't want her here.

But Merlin, he needed it.

She settled softly beside him, and he felt the soft skin of her hand come to rest on his forehead. He should have jerked away from the touch, should have snapped at her for daring to initiate it. But he didn't truly desire to do that, and the pretense of sleep gave him all the excuse he needed not to.

As he'd expected, he was soon able to feel the peculiar warmth of her magic mingling with his, a welcome relief to his stiffness and tension. Something about this... feeling, this sensation, was at once ecstatic and terrifying. He wasn't sure, in terms of raw sensation, he'd ever felt something so purely pleasant. At least, nothing so innocent had ever been. It terrified him because he seemed to be developing a dependence on it, one that was not entirely related to his condition.

In truth, he'd learned to manage the effects of the curse a long time ago. His magic was different, but controllable, and his dreams had long since faded. She had done her job—she had healed him.

He refused to consider why it was that he hadn't yet gotten around to telling her that this wasn't necessary anymore.

Eyes still closed, he felt her thin fingers trace down the outside of his countenance from his brow along his jawline, falling away once they'd reached his chin. Something inside him ached at the touch, a phantom pain he could not identify, a flaring of something persistent and always at the back of his mind.

"How is she doing?" Luna asked him, and he knew then that she hadn't been deceived by his ruse at all, that she'd acted with full knowledge of his wakefulness. He refused to think about it.

Wearily, he cracked his eyelids open, looking askance at her. Their eyes were nominally the same color—grey—but to call hers that was a disservice to the hue. They were pale and silvery and almost impossibly bright. Argent, was the word he wanted. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words stuck in his throat. Pansy was insensate, unconscious in a way that was not mere slumber. She could not be woken for anything. A coma, in a term borrowed from Muggle medicine, or so Thompson had said. And alone, in this wing of the hospital, completely removed from everything and everyone else. If not for him and Weasley, her only visitor would have been her healer. Even now, they were utterly alone in this part of the building—no one ever passed by. He would know.

Beside him, Luna shifted, pulling her legs underneath her and rising in the chair to a kneeling position, which made her about as tall as him, sitting down. His brows furrowed, and he turned his head properly to better discern her intentions.

As it turned out, that suited her just fine, because she laid her hands on either side of his face, so gently that it could never be mistaken for entrapment. The expression on her countenance was equally gentle, but he could not mistake it—she was looking right through to the core of him. His instinct was to retreat, to hide, to mask, but he knew in that moment that all such attempts were futile. She knew better than his snapped invectives, better than his detached, disinterested demeanor, better than his aristocratic confidence.

She saw him, and he had never felt more exposed in his life than he did now, stripped down to the very core of himself.

He wondered if he'd ever fooled her, or if she'd always seen.

"Draco," she said, merely a whisper of sound, so soft he almost had to strain to hear it. "It's okay to hurt."

And suddenly it was all too much. He was torn between conflicting instincts—denial raged strong in him, as it always did. Deny your feelings, deny your weaknesses, deny your mistakes, because Malfoys were not allowed to make them where anyone could see or find out. Anger boiled beneath his skin at the unfairness of it all, anger that this had happened at all, that Pansy had been attacked by some fucking scum that believed they could do as they liked to the people he cared about.

But most of all, he hurt.

Luna blurred in his field of vision, going indistinct at the edges, but he could still perceive enough to see her smile—from something like sympathy, he knew, not joy. Not pity. And that was enough. In a movement he didn't recall consciously deciding to make, he turned in his chair to fully face her. "She's my best friend... and I don't think I ever told her." If he could think of anything else right now, he would be surprised and disgusted by how raw and cracked and raspy his voice was, but he couldn't and he didn't.

What he did do was bow himself over and forward, letting his brow fall to her shoulder, and a jagged sob claw its way out of his throat. He felt her arms wrap around him with a strength that surprised him, before one moved up to his crown, threading through his hair and tracing a path down his head and neck to his back.

But she wasn't close enough, and Draco wound his arms around her waist, tugging her forward until she fell against him, and buried his face in her neck, shuddering with the force of his emotions. Luna adjusted herself, settling in his lap without protest or complaint. He could feel the warmth of her, the softness, and the solidity that lay under it, so unexpected for someone who seemed more wisp than person sometimes. But she was steady, infinitely steadier than him, and he grasped onto that like the selfish coward he was, leeching from her strength because he had none left of his own. And she gave of it willingly, rubbing soothing circles into his back and saying nothing. No platitudes, no empty words, no meaningless declarations of how fine it would all be.

He could hear the beat of her heart, feel it almost, and the steady thrum of her magic, still entwined with his, centered him as much as her physical presence was doing. He wept, something he hadn't done since boyhood, and she let him, both of them heedless of the saline evidence he was leaving on her robes.

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Mysteries, Meeting Room B_

A week and a day after Ron's return, the investigation task force finally reconvened. There were updates from everyone, but the majority of the attention was devoted to Ron's account of what had happened to Pansy and him, as well as what Hermione had then been able to infer about what the case really involved.

The possibility that an organization of considerable weight was behind this now seemed to be the leading theory, and that of course had gone quite some way towards further problematizing an already-prominent issue: they were not necessarily looking for a murderer among their ranks anymore, just a mole. So an alibi for the times of the murders didn't eliminate anyone, and the undermining the mole did was likely to be more subtle and therefore more dangerous. It was even, now, dangerous to continue speaking, sharing information, because everyone knew—though no one said—that any and all facts they discovered were probably going to make it back to the organization eventually.

Beside her, Draco shifted, and Luna let her knee fall slightly outwards under the table so that it met his. He was unlikely to allow her to do something as obvious as take his hand or lean her shoulder into his arm, but he was still struggling with the repercussions of all of this, perhaps more than any single other person. Ron had been the one who was abducted, and Luna did not doubt that was still an experience that the other Weasley was working through, but Draco had been cursed, nearly brought to scapegoat status when Astoria's friends recognized him as the one she'd left the club with, and now his best friend was in a coma, and no one could say when, or if, she would wake.

That he seemed to take at least some succor from her nearness was a fact Luna took advantage of, because he was disinclined to allow himself much in the way of other comforts, not while the parties slowly turning his life upside down were still out there. She felt him relax fractionally, but she didn't acknowledge it. He wouldn't want that, either.

There was silence for quite some time in the wake of the updates, everyone retreating inside their own heads and struggling to think of some way that they could get to the root of the problem, and then how they could do so without alerting this organization through their mole far in advance.

Luna had an idea for both, but she had a feeling no one was going to like it. Which was why, of course, she told Severus first.

Making eye contact with the former potions professor for a moment, Luna found herself suddenly up against his mental protections, and took a split second to marvel at their strength before she mentally knocked. She'd never be able to see into his mind unless he let her, obviously, but in a way that was better. He would know that too, and be more likely to allow her what little communication she needed, she thought.

They broke the eye contact, to keep anyone from noticing what they were doing, but she felt his occlumency shift slightly, admitting her into the very surface layer of his thoughts. She had the impression that he was not particularly pleased about this, but she didn't blame him. Hoping that he understood the necessity, she spoke into his thoughts.

 _I have an idea, but it is better if no one knows about it until they need to. Can you find a reason to bring Hermione to your office after the meeting adjourns?_  She only lent half an ear to the various ideas being thrown around in the room about what to do; in some sense it would be good if the others settled on some alternate plan, if only to mislead their foes.

His answer was exceedingly brief.  _Very well_. The connection closed, but she was gently extricated from his mind rather than forcefully shoved out, which she supposed was Severus's way of not-really-saying that he didn't mind her that much. Luna considered it a compliment, of sorts.

* * *

_Department of Mysteries, Field Division, Severus Snape's Office_

The meeting had ended with nothing ultimately decided. Severus supposed that this was reasonable enough, considering the large amount of new information they had to contend with. This was becoming much less like a law enforcement investigation and much more like an espionage operation, considering the presence, felt but not seen for what it was, of the mole. There were many potential ways to deal with this, of course, but the vast majority of the most direct and effective methods would involve very restricted spells or substances used on a large number of people.

There were also more than a half-dozen leads to try following up on, ones that may or may not yield anything. Draco's prophesy, the signet ring Mister Weasley had seen on one of his captors, the  _La Maison_  organization itself, which did seem to exist as a matter of certain records, though not publicly; even, perhaps, an attempt to use their newly-developed dream magic on Miss Parkinson, to see if anything might be gleaned from her recollection.

One thing that was not likely to pay them further dividends right now was further prodding at the mythological angle—this had moved mostly into the realm of the present tense, and for the moment, it was probably best that they remain there. It was under the pretext of discussing their next application of their combined knowledge that he discreetly invited Hermione back to his own office, within the Department of Mysteries. Most of the investigation team did not have sufficient credentials to be there unless accompanied by either himself or Draco, and he supposed that this was likely why Miss Lovegood had chosen it, leaving him to conclude that she would be arriving in he company of his godson.

No sooner had he and Hermione settled into the office than the other two did indeed show, Draco bearing an expression of some confusion, which he hadn't bothered to conceal. He paused a moment upon entering—there were only two chairs in front of Severus's desk, both of them hardly used, and Draco gestured for Miss Lovegood to take it, but she shook her head, choosing instead to perch on the arm of Hermione's, something the other young woman seemed to mind not at all.

"You had something you wished to discuss with us, Miss Lovegood?" He arched a brow, folding his hands together in front of his chin.

She smiled slightly, inclining her head. "I did. Thank you for providing us a place to do so, Severus." The door was closed, warded against all manner of eavesdropping, and he was relatively certain that none of the individuals in this room were the mole. Severus did not trust instinctively, not anymore, but for vastly different reasons, he found that he could almost trust each of them to be what they presented themselves as.

"I think I know how we can catch the killer. And I believe that by doing so, we will have caught the organization's weakest link, and have the best chance of dismantling it."

Her words were met with a moment of silence, before Hermione spoke up. "How?" She didn't need to ask why he was the weakest link—no one did. They could all see it, in the poorly-controlled magic he wielded, in the way his rage overtook him with each act of murder. He was little more, in the end, than a leashed animal, allowed free only in the right circumstances, when his violence was needed to achieve an effect. Making him their point of entry was a sensible suggestion from a tactical standpoint.

Miss Lovegood's smile grew just fractionally. "I'm going to walk into a very busy nightclub on the day of a very well-publicized event, and make it quite clear that I'm alone."  _As many times as necessary_ , continued the subtext, though she did not say it.

"Are you crazy?" That, predictably enough, was Draco. "Make yourself bait, that's the plan here? Don't be ridiculous!" His jaw clenched—his anger was poorly hidden, probably because he didn't want to hide it. Severus's eyes slid to Hermione, who didn't look that pleased either, but more thoughtful, as though she were still considering it.  
So Severus decided to interject. "Actually, the plan is quite sound. I presume you intend for the rest of us to find you once you're taken, by aid of tracking charm?" She nodded.

"It has to be me. No one else on the investigation team fits the victimology, and glamour charms or mundane disguises could be easily detected, depending on the level of sophistication." She said it with the same breeziness as ever, but there was a seriousness in the way her eyes looked that belied the impression.

"Polyjuice isn't detectable that way," Hermione pointed out, correctly but not as relevantly as she believed.

"And when it wears off, he'll know he was duped, kill whoever we sent, and know we're onto him." Draco sounded as though he had to grind out the words, so reluctant was he to admit that the plan as it had been stated was more sound than anything else they had. "Can't risk that happening, especially because we don't know how long it will take for contact to occur in the first place." He paused. "But how the bloody hell do we even know he'll go for it? You're not exactly the usual type, Lovegood, hair color notwithstanding." He said it with a layer of condescension, one that rang exceedingly false to Severus.

It appeared to ring exceedingly false to Miss Lovegood as well, though Hermione was slower to pick up on the fact, glowering over at him, only to be glared at in return.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Miss Lovegood replied, waving a hand with nonchalance. "I'm sure I'll figure something out." She paused then, and took a slow breath before she continued. "The statutes for questioning involving _Veritaserum_ require that the person being interrogated either have already committed a deadly or potentially deadly crime or have given some indication that he or she has information about one to be committed in the future. That means, in order for any such interrogation to be legally permitted..."

"...he has to actually abduct you," Hermione finished with a frown. "Kidnapping is a potentially deadly crime by the definition. How long have you been considering this idea, Luna?" Severus was curious now as well. Her manner of contacting him made it seem almost as though it were something she'd thought of at the meeting, but to know the legalese regarding the use of _Veritaserum_ implied that she'd already done a considerable amount of research.

Miss Lovegood only smiled enigmatically, raising her shoulders in a delicate shrug. "A while. We'll need to let the others know, of course, but I think perhaps not until I've actually been taken." At that point, the crime would have been committed regardless of whether the mole could tell  _La Maison_  about it or not.

If Severus were prone to flights of fancy, he might have said that Draco looked as though he were about to channel his namesake and start breathing smoke out of his nose, but Snape understood immediately why Miss Lovegood had come to them of all people for assistance with the plan. Regardless of trust, he and Hermione were the most likely to endorse her putting herself at this kind of risk for the investigation, because it was, in truth, a very rational and efficient way of making actual progress towards its completion. He and Draco also had considerable skills in the sort of operations that would be required to extract her once she was held, and the sorts of charms and enchantments that could help them zero in on her location.

Almost as though she'd picked up on his train of thought, she half-smiled at him. "All in favor?"

"Aye," replied Severus and Hermione at the same time, though the latter with some reluctance yet remaining. All eyes moved to Draco. He was already outvoted, of course, but he could yet decide to spoil the chances for the plan by revealing it to the others, and therefore likely to the mole.

He swallowed thickly, still clearly against it, but then he clenched his jaw and nodded jerkily.

"Fine."


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Stratagems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The endgame begins, ready or not.

_Alexandria, Egypt, Hermione Granger’s Residence_

Events moved apace, and it was not many days later that Hermione found herself in the rather odd situation of helping dress up Luna Lovegood for some kind of large event at one of Sweden’s premier nightclubs. 

It was, admittedly, a bit of a case of the blind leading the blind, because neither one of them was the sort who ever went to that kind of place, but as with everything Hermione did, she made every effort to do it properly, and the bulk of the afternoon had been spent researching the pages of those horrible trashy magazines she never read, and then some of the more high-end fashion ones as well, to get an idea of what they should be transfiguring if Luna was to have a hope of fitting in amongst the other partygoers. 

Though... fitting in might be a bit of a stretch in any case. Hermione had not always appreciated Luna’s peculiar mannerisms and way of being in the world, not when her thoughts had been so firmly entrenched in facts and data and the things that books had told her. But with time, and the necessity of confronting her own shortcomings, she had developed a bit of an appreciation for someone who could see past the data to what they really meant, or between the facts to what wasn’t being said. Luna was, in her own way, perhaps the smartest person Hermione knew. 

She was also presently looking quite unlike herself, and though her serene face did not betray it as clearly as another’s might have, Hermione was learning how to see past the obvious as well, and she could detect a bit of discomfiture. “Not exactly what you’d choose on any other day, is it?” 

Luna turned to catch Hermione’s eye, her thin smile an elegant bit of communication that required no further words. She tugged a bit ineffectually at the hemline of the shorts she wore, a great deal further up her legs than anything Hermione had ever known her to don voluntarily. It was funny, almost; she’d never have suspected Luna Lovegood to be the kind of person who would have body image issues—they seemed far too _mundane_ and everyday to be the kind of thing that she even thought about, but then... maybe it was something every woman had to contend with at one point or another. It certainly wouldn’t be a surprise.

Perhaps also universal was that no one ever looked as awful as they imagined. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, you know,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “I suppose it’s probably uncomfortable, but you’ll look like you belong.” That was true—she was confident enough in their research to be relatively certain of it. The dark denim shorts were paired with a sort of asymmetric belted tunic-like thing in soft blue, and all of Luna’s tasteful jewelry was silver, from the simple locket at her throat to the delicate chains of tiny hoops that dangled from each ear. Her wrists were bare, but that wasn’t especially concerning, really. They’d sacrificed half a bottle of Sleekeasy’s for her extremely long hair, which now lay smooth and tame rather than in its usual golden waves, as was apparently the current style recommendation.

Hermione’s stomach turned a little bit thinking about that—if the victimology was anything to go by, this detail of her friend’s appearance would draw a serial killer to her. That was, of course, the plan, but it was still uncomfortable to think about at the very least, and she felt an unbidden flare of concern in her chest. There was something different, about this kind of danger, something that made it feel more insidious and sinister even than the dangers associated with a war. 

Luna took a spot beside Hermione on her bed, exhaling what sounded like a soft sigh. “You shouldn’t worry, either, Hermione,” she said, canting her head to the side slightly. “I trust all of you. You’ll find me before anything can happen.”

“You can’t know that.” Hermione’s protest was soft, and she turned slightly in her spot, adjusting her seat so that she was crosslegged and facing Luna. “Anything could happen in there, Luna, and we might not be able to—” She couldn’t quite make herself say it. Being in danger with her friends at her side was an entirely different thing to sending her friends into danger alone, she was rapidly discovering. 

“But I do.” Luna smiled. “I know. The three of you won’t let me die, and when it’s time for them to know, Harry and the others won’t either.” 

Her tone left no room for argument, and for once, Hermione didn’t choose to argue anyway.

* * *

_London, England, Luna Lovegood’s Residence_

Draco shifted uncomfortably, raising his hand to knock but never quite getting his knuckles to the door. He was due for the operation in half an hour, which of course meant that she was, too. There was no guarantee that she was even home, considering. He had no idea how long Granger would have kept her with whatever preparations they deemed necessary—something told him that getting Luna to look like she belonged in a club was a task that neither of them knew a lot about. Probably he should have been the person who did most of that, given his familiarity with the scene. 

So... he could think of this as a preliminary check, a way of making sure no last-minute adjustments were necessary. 

Resolved, he knocked four times and took a half-step back. Her doormat was a peculiar shade of teal, he noted absently, but then such a strange choice was hardly surprising considering who lived here. 

She must have been in the front room of her flat or close by, because it didn’t take long at all for the door to open. Luna seemed a bit surprised to see him there, but the expression faded quickly, back to neutrality. 

The first thought that struck him was that Luna Lovegood was extremely conventionally attractive when dressed conventionally. What had been more than one awkward detail of appearance in adolescence had smoothed out into grace in adulthood—her eyes, once a bit protuberant, were now simply large and expressive in her face, and the other features that had been too small by comparison had refined, the roundness of her face receding into sleeker angles, making evident the height of her cheekbones, the elegant bow-shape of her lips, and the delicate point to her chin. Her hair, not presently in danger of flying away from her head in wisps, was thick and glossy, presently pin-straight in smooth strands of gold. 

She had one of the nicest pairs of legs he’d ever seen—long, which made sense considering her greater-than-average height, lean, with muscle definition brought on by an active lifestyle. Though her frame was willowy and slender more than anything, the atypical form-fittingness of her clothes clued him in to the presence of gentle curves as well. Her skin was utterly flawless, her symmetry near-perfect, as far as he could tell. 

Had this been a year ago, had she been any other woman, he would have been plotting to seduce her into his bed the moment they crossed paths, without doubt. She was beautiful.

But the second thing that struck him, hard on the heels of the first, was how easily he could read her discomfort. He’d always thought her a bit of an enigma, difficult to understand or predict despite the easy openness of her expressions, but right now he had no trouble at all detecting her unease. It was stamped in the slight crease to her brow; she held it in the line of her shoulders, tense when they should not be. She was looking at him steadily, with a sense of expectation, as though awaiting a comment.

Irritation flared in him for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate. “You look wrong,” he said, and immediately regretted it. That wasn’t the thing he’d meant to voice. 

But she only smiled sadly, her posture deflating a little further. “I feel wrong,” she replied softly, and stepped aside to allow him to enter the flat. Draco, usually extremely confident around lovely women, found that he had no idea how to fix what he’d just done. 

Because the truth of it was, she _did_ look wrong. Her clothes were too commercial, her jewelry too generic. She looked wrong because she didn’t look like _Luna_ anymore, even though perhaps most people would have considered this an improvement over her loud robes and tousled waves and ridiculous vegetable earrings. _Beautiful_ was all well and good, but normally she was more than merely beautiful. 

She was herself. 

Draco grimaced. “I didn’t mean...” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just different. There’s nothing bad about it.” If she’d looked happy and comfortable as she was now, he’d not have even had the thought, probably. “I don’t care how you dress, Luna.” Not really. It didn’t matter to him if she wore designer labels or mismatched colors or a bloody burlap sack. She’d still be the same woman underneath it, and he—

Realization hit Draco hard, like a bludger to the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He cared about her. As a person, as herself. She had, somehow, insinuated herself into his life and become... _dear_ to him. That was the flavor he wanted to give the feeling—she mattered, now, in a way that few people ever had. She was, against all his wishes and better sense, his friend, and friends were something he’d always had in short supply. 

He also rarely had to deal with being sexually attracted to his friends, but at the moment, that was so far beside the point that it was almost laughable. The epiphany tilted his world just barely sideways, enough that he wondered how he was supposed to balance everything now. But then, she’d been doing that to him since he’d known her, in ways large and small. This tilt though; this one felt permanent in a way none of the others had.

Luna was studying him, he could tell. She didn’t disguise the mixture of curiosity and concern in her face, nor the slight hint of apprehension. “It’s all right,” she told him, the words falling from her lips more deliberately than they usually seemed to, as though she needed to taste each one before letting it go. “But you should say if I’m missing something. Hermione and I tried, but we’re not exactly experts on all of this.” 

Draco pursed his lips, forcing himself to snap back into the present and out of his own head. He was opening his mouth to tell her she looked perfectly suited to the task at hand when he stopped, reaching into his light robes. “One more thing,” he said, his tone rasping slightly quite against his own will as his hand closed over something in his pocket. 

He withdrew the little blue velvet bag, gesturing for her to hold her hand out so that he could tip its contents into her palm. What fell out was an impulse purchase from several months ago, just before Christmas. 

The charm bracelet had not been the most expensive piece in the jeweler’s shop—not by a long shot. It had no diamonds or gold or platinum at all. It wasn’t some delicate, showy, perfectly boring piece remarkable for its obvious cost more than anything else. The chain was actually quite thick, made of polished silver, and it was clearly designed to hold multiple charms, if such things were purchased. Right now, it only had one, a little crescent moon, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. 

“I can cast a tracking charm on the, uh, charm,” he offered, sounding foolish in his own ears, but unable to make himself sound any different. “Something less obvious than what we’d cast on you, one that needs to be activated.” The flow of his words halted at the look on her face. 

She was... she was looking at him like he’d hung the damn moon in the sky. Eyes wide, expression infused with the most childlike wonder he’d ever seen on an adult in his life. And then she smiled, and it wasn’t a thing restricted to her mouth or even her eyes as well, it was something her whole _self_ did, and for the second time in only a few minutes, Draco was completely unable to breathe. 

“Thank you, Draco.” The moment thickened until he could swear the air had the consistency of syrup, but mercifully Luna dropped her eyes to the bracelet, running a thumb over the dangling charm, for the moment resting on her fingers. “Would you... would you help me with the clasp?”

There were spells for that. She was a talented witch, he an accomplished wizard. Either of them could have cast such a thing, and the bracelet would have fitted itself over her wrist with no problem at all. 

Neither of them did. 

Instead, he took the step and a half it took to close the gap between them, his fingers brushing her palm as he picked up the bracelet. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the small, sharp intake of breath she made, but he allowed himself to believe that he didn’t, that he had some kind of effect on her, maybe something that echoed the effect she had on him, now. 

His fingers were thankfully deft and steady as he used them to wind the chain around her wrist, and the clasp wasn’t difficult. He let his touch linger longer than he should have, trailing his index digit up the delicate tracery of veins just beneath her hand on the inside of her arm, forcing himself away only once he’d reached the end of her middle finger. Even then, it was difficult, almost as though their fingertips were held together with an adhesion, like droplets of water. 

“Luna.” His voice was a near-whisper, and his eyes sought hers and held them.

“Yes?” She breathed the word more than she spoke it.

“You’re going to be all right.” Draco had never used platitudes. He had never believed in them. But this wasn’t a platitude at all.

It was a promise, and he knew she would understand that.

Her smile was small, but her nod was firm. 

“I know.”

* * *

_Stockholm, Sweden, Förmörkelse Nattklub_

If they had been muggles, they’d have used mobile phones or hand radios or something, but Hermione was by now used to the magical solution to mundane problems such as ranged communication, and so Severus, herself, and Draco were all wearing something bespelled to enable them to speak to one another without being able to see where the others were. Luna, they had eventually decided not to provide with such a device, on the rationale that if the spells were detected, she might never be approached by the killer at all. 

Hermione had noticed the new item of jewelry, but didn’t think much of it. Apparently, there was a trigger-activated tracking charm on it, which shouldn’t be detectable until in use. It was probably a good thing to have by way of backup, and she registered no protest to it, nor did Severus or Draco. 

Double-checking to make sure that her elaborate golden earring was in place, she turned to the others, spending a few seconds to smooth down a couple of flyaway hairs from Luna’s head. It wasn’t strictly necessary, maybe, but she did it anyway, and Luna didn’t seem to mind. Hermione, dressed in jeans and a modest blouse, wouldn’t stick out at all in the crowd of people in the club, but that was the point: the more she blended with the background, the better. Her job was to enter with Luna, then split off to the bar, where she’d be able to keep a closer eye on things than either of the other two, who would be covering the exits, in hopes of being able to cast a tracer as soon as Luna was officially abducted. 

An enormous risk, but stacked up against what they stood to gain... Hermione knew that her choice would have been the same as Luna’s, had she herself been in the right position to make it. 

“Ready?” She put the question to the group as a whole. Severus nodded first, casting a wordless disillusionment charm on himself and flickering out of sight. An uneasy expression crossed Draco’s face for only a moment before he did the same. “Okay. I’ll let you know when we’re in position.” They did her the courtesy of not moving _too_ quietly, and so she was able to detect them receding. She gave it a little bit before she turned to Luna, offering what she hoped was another reassuring smile. 

“Let’s go, then.”

It was honestly less glamorous than it might sound, infiltrating like this. For the first half-hour or so, they stood in line and awaited admission. They’d mocked up identifications with false names; this club catered to muggles and wizards alike, which meant it defaulted to the muggle practices of admission. As they were certainly not recognized VIPs, they had to stand in the queue like everyone else. Hermione spent most of the time trying to focus on how she was presenting herself—she didn’t want to seem overly tense or nervous. It was really unlikely that it would matter in the long run, but even the smallest chance that it would was enough to provoke caution.

Luna, by contrast, didn’t appear to be all that aware of her surroundings—she had a very typically Luna-like daydreamy look on her face, her eyes fixed on the middle distance, her posture entirely relaxed save for the line of tension that had never quite left her shoulders, and that was barely perceptible. 

“ _I’m at the back entrance. Nothing out of the ordinary yet_.” Draco’s update in her ear startled Hermione; she’d forgotten she was expecting it, and jumped slightly. Luna’s eyes came back into focus quite quickly, and she tilted an eyebrow in query. Hermione shook her head slightly. 

“ _The same is true of the side exit_.” Severus sounded that particular mix of utterly unruffled and mildly irritated that meant he’d really rather be elsewhere, but then, so would all of them. 

“ _Almost in_ ,” Hermione replied under her breath. Luna nodded sagely. 

Once they had presented their identification to the bouncer at the front of the club and got free of the press of bodies immediately around the entrance, their senses were bombarded by the interior of the club. The music was loud, the bass thudding with such impact that she could feel it it in her chest, where it thrummed up from her toes. The lights were multicolored and strobing, making it difficult to figure out exactly what was going on, though she supposed some people must be used to this. The club was packed with people, the dance floor itself the most densely-populated area, leaving the places around the sides a little freer. 

Hermione touched Luna’s shoulder and motioned over towards the bar, as though it had not been planned in advance that she would be parking herself there to observe. With a nod and a smile, Luna indicated her understanding, and made for the fringes of the dance floor. 

From the data they had been able to gather about the last nights of most of the victims, there was no particular preference on the killer’s part for whether they were avid dancers or more like wallflowers—the universal constants were their appearance and the fact that their friends lost track of them eventually. Which meant they were alone and approachable at _some_ time. Only Astoria had been different, but then, if this person really did disguise himself as Draco, she would have recognized him, and gone willingly. A muggle would have been a different case.

So Hermione attempted not to make the fact that she was keeping track of Luna obvious in any way, and split her time between that, surveying the room for any hint of someone who looked like a Malfoy, and sipping at the club soda and grenadine she’d ordered to look like she belonged at the bar. She had to deflect a few overtures of attention and offers of drinks, but she gathered that wasn’t out of the ordinary, and had expected it, to some extent. Making her disinterest apparent wasn’t hard, and no one pressed. 

Keeping tabs on Luna, however, proved difficult, given how much of a challenge it was to see anything in the atmospheric lighting. She was lucky she wasn’t epileptic, or she’d surely have had a seizure already. The next time her eyes landed on her friend, however, Hermione sucked in a breath. Even knowing that Polyjuice was likely in play, the image was uncanny. When she spoke next, her voice was tight.

“ _Target has made contact_.”

* * *

Luna found herself toying almost unconsciously with the bracelet wound around her left wrist, though she had avoided activating the tracking charm on it. Though she was doing her best to project the sort of disaffected confidence she saw in many of the other patrons, those that lingered at the edges of the floor as she did, it was difficult. She smiled a little to herself when she realized that the attitude she was trying to emulate was, in many ways, quite like Draco’s. 

She did not know how to dance, not in the manner that these people were dancing, though it didn’t look especially challenging. Only uncomfortable—she was not often so close to another person as most of the dancers seemed to be comfortable being to complete strangers. She didn’t know what to make of that, exactly. The one other time she’d been to a club had been the time she disillusioned herself to follow Draco around, and she’d thought the same then. 

“Not going to dance?” The voice was at once familiar and not, and the words were spoken directly into her ear, a hot gust of breath ghosting over the shell of it and down her neck. She shuddered, and did not linger on why. 

Half-turning, she tilted her head up to meet a pair of very familiar eyes. His hair was looser than Draco usually wore his, and pieces of it hung near his lashes, which she was nearly close enough to count. His mouth was curled into a smirk, almost an exact replica of a very familiar expression. Her stomach twisted; it was uncanny and unnerving, how at once he was so similar and yet utterly different from the way she knew he should be. The way Draco really was. 

Luna realized that he was waiting for an answer, and drew on years of experience to flash a dreamy, easy smile, blinking languidly. “I don’t know how,” she answered honestly. When he arched a brow in invitation for her to explain, she did, sliding the agreed-upon story into the conversation as smoothly as she could. “My friend brought me here, but I’ve no idea where she went.” She shrugged, as if to express good-natured confusion, and his smile inched wider. 

“I can help you look for her?” He inflected it like a question, and she supposed it made sense that he would be good at appearing so genuine as he did. 

Still, if this was too easy, he’d have a reason to be suspicious, right? Admittedly, Luna did not spend much time deceiving people, and on the occasions that she’d had to, she’d often traded on her reputation as a bit of a loon to do so. Having to lie while acting like everyone else was considerably more complicated. “Oh, um... you don’t have to do that. I’m sure I’ll run into her eventually.”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “I can’t well leave you here alone.” 

Luna suppressed her immediate alarm. This was, after all, the point. But still, his manner was extremely overbearing. She couldn’t imagine actually capitulating to such an ill-disguised demand. She wondered what that meant, in relation to his other victims, but that was something to be worried about later. 

“I... thank you,” she said, doing her best to come off as relieved, but trying poorly to conceal it. That was probably the attitude he expected, and it seemed best to behave accordingly. 

She had to fight not to jump when she felt his hand at the small of her back, an unsubtle attempt to steer her in the direction he wanted. There was, of course, some attempted searching, though he wasn’t putting much effort into it, considering that they never did venture near to where Hermione was, or to most other areas. When he suggested that they ‘go out for some air’ before continuing their search, Luna hesitated for just long enough to seem properly realistic, and then consented. 

That she was expecting the way he surged up behind her, wrapping one large hand around her nose and mouth and pulling her forcefully up against his body, did not eliminate the fear it caused, and she put up what fight she could without giving away her ability to cast without word or wand. Instead, she threw an elbow back into his stomach, pulling forward when he grunted in response, then rearing back to smack his face with the crown of her head. She felt something give slightly, and suspected she might have broken or hurt his nose somehow, but then a wand pressed into her lower back, and she felt nothing at all.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line between rescue and escape is blurry, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to put a bit of a disclaimer on this one: it pushes its rating a fair bit. Content warning for semi-graphic depictions of torture.

_Location Unknown_

When Luna returned to consciousness, it took her a while to asses her situation. Unsure of what circumstances she’d find herself in, she elected not to make it obvious that she’d woken, and so kept her eyes closed, relying first on what her other senses could discern. 

Her mouth felt dry, as though filled with cotton, but she had not been gagged. Whether that was due to oversight or simply because she had no hope of being heard by anyone friendly wasn’t clear. She felt a hard surface beneath her, one that was also relatively smooth, and quite cold. Stone, probably. Her wrists were bound together, most likely a joint-lock hex, since she felt no physical restraints but was unable to force them apart. Wherever she was, it was quiet—she could detect no sounds of movement or voices, and this prompted her to risk cracking her eyelids. 

The lighting was dim, and so she blinked her eyes the rest of the way open, scanning her surroundings in the gloom. She’d been right about the floor; dark grey granite lay beneath her, and her shoulder ached from being pressed into it, or perhaps thrown, she could not say. The room, though spartan, was not entirely bare. Rather, it was dominated by a large table, pushed up against one of the walls. She couldn’t see the surface, but the edge looked stained in places, the natural medium brown of the wood rendered darker by fluid once present. She didn’t need her degree in mediwizardry to recognize that the stains came from blood. 

Pulling in a breath, she awkwardly pushed herself onto her knees, her motions considerably hampered by her bound hands, and feet as well. She expected that she could remove the restraints with wandless magic, but though her instinct was to get herself free as soon as possible, her intellect reminded her that to do so might not be the most effective thing. If she did that, only to get caught two steps out the door, she’d have tipped her hand and put herself in even more danger than she was already in. It was better to wait for more information, so she would know what her options were. 

As if to confirm her thought, she heard the approach of footsteps from outside the room. Soft, so maybe on carpet, which led her to believe she was inside a larger building. Perhaps a residence of some kind? Luna debated the merits of pretending to be unconscious again, but decided she’d rather have her eyes open, if she was to come face-to-face with her would-be murderer. She wanted to look him in the eye and see what was there. 

The door opened with a creak—a possible problem if she tried to sneak out later—and in stepped a man. He looked nothing like Draco anymore, but the way he moved and held himself left her with no doubt that he was her kidnapper. The distinctive things about his bearing and carriage that had so unnerved her when displayed by someone wearing Draco’s face now made more sense, seemed more natural. This man was a few inches shorter and narrower, though still plenty strong, if his build was anything to go by. He was rather nondescript, really, though she supposed the aquiline angle of his nose and the prominence of his cheekbones bespoke a sort of aristocracy that some would find agreeable. She, of course, was not inclined to find anything about him agreeable, aesthetically or otherwise. 

Luna could not tell what color his eyes were from the distance he stood at, but she knew without doubt that they were fixed upon her. He stalked into the room with a sort of enforced smoothness, as though strictly reining in some impulse towards abruptness. She blinked at him, tracking his progress as he moved towards her. The corner of his mouth twisted; he looked at nothing but her, pulling himself to a stop when a scant two feet remained between them. She craned her neck up to see his face, suppressing the urge to swallow thickly, or, more usefully, to immediately use her magic to escape. 

This close, she discovered that his irises were honey-brown, a warm color that contrasted strangely with the almost reptilian rigidity of his posture, and the brutal lines of his frame, thick and sturdy. He wore some form of aftershave or perhaps cologne—she wasn’t so expert that she could tell the difference—and it smelled vaguely of cedar.

He paused to fold his hands behind his back, and she noted the glint as light struck the silver ring he wore. The symbol on its face looked eerily familiar—Ronald had the same mark pressed into his face, for a little while. She had a fair guess now as to this man’s name and his general temperament, but she wasn’t sure yet what advantage, if any, such information would provide. She tried to grasp her bracelet with her opposite hand, only to realize that it was missing, as was the rest of the jewelry she’d been wearing, in fact. She hoped the spell had not been detected. 

The silence was uncomfortably thick, even for her, and she maintained her equanimity as well as she could, pursing her lips slightly and holding eye contact. She showed no fear, though that was rather deceptive of her. “What do you want?” she asked him, her tone as misty as it ever was, the ruse of nonchalance standing her in good stead.

The smile on his lips grew, splitting his face almost in two, and something in his eyes darkened. “It’s not about what I want,” he told her, leaning down slightly so that his face was less than a foot from hers. Luna made it a point not to flinch backwards, though she would have welcomed the space. “It’s about what the master wants. He has so much, you see. But he always wants more. Just like me.”

Luna’s nostrils flared as she took in a steadying breath. “Who is the master?” There was a chance he’d just tell her, since he thought she wasn’t going to survive this anyway. It couldn’t hurt to ask, could it? 

But he shook his head. “You don’t have to know that. But you will serve him anyway.” He tilted his head to the side, his eyes growing soft, and reached over, pressing the fingertips of one hand to the side of her face, splaying them over her cheekbone and jawline. Luna bit the inside of her lip. 

“I’ve been waiting so long for you, you know,” he said, his tone suffused with a note of near-reverence. “The art has slipped away from me, for so long, but the Master knows it wasn’t my fault. Pure art can only be achieved with pure canvas.” She felt the pads of his fingers drag downwards, along the flesh of her cheek and forward to the point of her chin. 

“I will make such fine art with you.”

* * *

She sat in silence for a while after he left; with no idea how long she’d been there, Luna could not say if her rescue was immanent, impossible, or somewhere in between. Part of her wanted to go find her tracker, and activate it, which would at least give her a chance at backup soon. But she hadn’t the faintest idea where it was, and the possibility that the killer himself, or one of the others in his group, could be carrying it left her searching for alternatives. 

She couldn’t wait too much longer. There was always a chance of the mole discovering the plan and somehow alerting the people here to the fact that she was a deliberate hostage. 

That settled it then; she dare not risk waiting any longer. Luna Lovegood would be rescuing herself. 

Murmuring a soft _Alohamora_ under her breath, she was unsurprised when the spell failed to dislodge anything, and tried again, this time with a counterspell for all sorts of body-binds. That one worked, freeing her wrists, and she repeated the process on her ankles, pushing herself to stand upright. She could feel the last of the drugs still making her woozy, and when she righted herself, the world seemed to tilt and whirl for several seconds. Letting out a shuddering breath, she braced one hand against the wall and waited for it to pass.

When her vision settled, she moved towards the closed door, keeping her steps light, and paused a few inches from it, leaning forward and turning her head so that her ear hovered beside the panel of wood. At first, there was nothing, and then she heard a slight rustle. Placing her hand on the doorknob, Luna turned it, then held it in the far position, waiting to see what would happen. Nothing changed, and she did not hear the rustle again. 

Biting her lip, Luna pushed against the door decisively, keeping the knob in hand and stepping quickly out into the hallway. Resistance met her partway when the door thudded into something solid, but the sound was dull. A grunt followed, and she whipped around the door, coming face-to-face with a well-built man she did not recognize. 

“ _Somnum mollis_ ,” she whispered, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed in a heap, gently snoring. She elected to leave him there; speed and stealth were her best options now, but speed was to be preferred even over stealth. 

The building she was in turned out to be a rather large house, if she had her guess, perhaps almost of a size with Malfoy Manor. She thought distantly that whoever had chosen the dark color of the stone and austere decorations wasn’t quite the interior designer Lady Malfoy was. 

Cloaking herself with a quick disillusionment charm, she hoped that it would hold long enough to see her safely out, but it wasn’t her best spell by a long shot, and she was still without her wand, so it could fail at any time. Picking up her pace into a soft-footed jog, she navigated her way down the halls, noting that none of the windows seemed to be the kind that would open easily. At least she was on the first floor; there should be a door around here somewhere…

It took her about ten tense minutes, but she found one. Unfortunately, that must have also been right around when someone discovered the sleeping guard in front of her prison, and raised an alarm, because there were suddenly many more people in the hallways, all of them frantically searching, quite possibly for her. The door before her swung open as several more people filed in. Holding her breath, Luna ducked around them, making a dash for the door before it closed. 

She made it, if only just, but unfortunately, it was at that moment that her disillusionment spell winked out, and she suddenly became visible to everyone looking in that general direction. A shout of alarm went up, followed by several phrases in French, which she elected not to spend the effort of trying to translate. Instead, she fled. 

The door crashed open behind her, and she felt the ground beneath her tremble as at least two high-powered spells hit the ground just behind her and to her left. Pumping her arms and straining to bound forward as much as possible with each step, she sprinted along a lawn, spotting a fringe of trees on the other side and hoping to lose her pursuit within. 

A concussive blast hit close on her right, and she stumbled forward, throwing up a shield charm in hopes of at least providing herself some insurance against any others. In her mind, she called up the memory of her eighth birthday, of the smiling faces of her parents, and directed the feeling outwards. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

The silvery rabbit materialized beside her, easily keeping pace with her sprint, and she directed it between breaths. “Find Draco,” she urged. “Tell him… tell them where I am, and that there are many people here. They need to be careful.” The rabbit bobbed its head once, and then surged ahead of her, aiming slightly southward of her own direction. That didn’t help much; she had no idea where she was. 

So close—it wouldn’t be long now before she hit the tree line. 

A blast, vastly stronger than any of the others, impacted her shield spell with enough force to send her tumbling to the ground, her momentum jarring her shoulder and right arm where she hit and forcing her to roll several times before she came to a stop. She heard an ominous crack, and pain bloomed in her arm. Luna, lacking the air to scream, gasped instead, rotating another quarter-turn so she wasn’t laying on it anymore, and chanced a look at the wound. Her radius was clearly the victim—part of it protruded jaggedly from her skin. 

That would take much more time to heal than she had, and so Luna staggered again to her feet, the palm of her left hand pressing into the ground while she attempted to get her feet underneath her. 

“You can’t escape, you know.” How had he gotten here so quickly? Luna’s eyes shot up to take in her captor’s face, and she sucked in a breath. There was one thing left she could try, though it was hard to say what the result would be, injured and tired as she was. Still, she pushed herself to her feet and began to turn, keeping the incantation silent in hopes of obscuring her intent. 

It almost worked, and she felt the telltale pull from behind her navel that signaled the beginning of an apparation before her captor fired a spell from the end of his wand. “What did I _just_ say?” he inquired, his voice low, suffused with a menace that had not been there before. She found her apparation blocked, and the breath she’d been holding hissed out from between her teeth. Her vision was clouding at the edges from the pain in her arm, and Luna turned back around, seeing no choice but to face him. 

He was visibly seething, his jaw so tight a muscle in it jumped, his eyes narrowed to dark slits, the grip he had on his wand white-knuckled and vaguely trembling. He raised it, and Luna threw up a wordless shield charm, sending his body-bind hex skittering away. From behind him, she could see others approaching, and pursed her lips, bending slightly at the knees as she recalled old dueling lessons. She shifted her wounded arm behind her as well as she could, not wanting to make it an obvious target, and held her other one half-bent in front of her. 

His spell had shattered her shield, and she didn’t like her chances of keeping another one up for too long, so she went on the offensive instead. Silently, she cast another sleep hex, but he met it midair with a spell of his own, and both fizzled out. Quickly, she hurled another, this time using the incantation, and he blocked with a shield. Her third fell to a _Finite Incantatem_. Clearly, her foe had learned to duel, and she could not help but notice that every time their spells clashed, hers were pushed back by the force of his. 

“Enough of this,” he sneered, raising his wand for another hex. This one she did not recognize at first, but the moment it shattered her _Protego_ , she knew exactly what it was. 

Pain blossomed on her back, and she felt her skin splitting open, hot blood seeping from the myriad tiny cuts he’d opened on her skin. He cast it again, and more cuts appeared on her arms and legs, as well as the front of her torso. The sensation was excruciating, and forced Luna to her knees. She screamed raggedly, unable to prevent it. Still, she refused to collapse, forming in her mind and at her fingertips a stunner, only to lose the words and the magic as another wave of pain ripped over her flesh. It felt very much like she imagined being flayed alive felt, and she could not remember if this was more or less than the repeated application of the _Cruciatus_ had left her with. It didn’t matter, really.

The moment seemed to stretch on and on, the individual nodes of pain blurring and becoming an indistinct haze. It felt like it burned, like salt was being pressed into each, sharp and flanged in fire. A brand and a cut at the same time. Her whole body seemed to shred, her vision went in and out, white-black-white-black, and she was forced to brace her good hand in the dirt, to simply _endure_ , as well as she could, for time she could not keep track of.

* * *

“ _Sectumsempra_!” She didn’t register the voice that spoke so much as she registered that the immediate burning of the pain had stopped. Luna knew this mostly because she could tell the wounds apart again; they were many instances of discrete hurt rather than one continuous agony. Pulling in shallow breaths, she invested a gargantuan effort in lifting her head, noting that her Patronus was present, and leading a party of five through the trees. 

So soon? For some reason, that didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t remember why just now. Her captor writhed still on the grass, bleeding from a laceration on his chest. She watched dispassionately as the red spilled out of him to stain the green of the grass below. Green grass… Greengrass. She knew someone with that name. Two someones, once. 

“Luna!” The voice pulled her from her incoherent musings, forcing her attention back to the present. Her eyes moved from the bleeding man to the one who’d shouted, and she recognized him immediately. Of course she would, though. How could she not?

She smiled, and felt it tremble. “Hello, Draco. It’s nice to see you.”

* * *

_Outside of Nice, France_

He blinked at her response; that was all she had to say? Luna was covered in cuts, deliberate cuts that seemed to move and shift on her skin, rending open her pale flesh in countless places. She bled freely from all of them, her blood dripping at an alarming rate onto the grass below. He found it nearly unbelievable that she was even still alive, much less _conscious_. She was probably delirious. 

He was shit with healing spells, he knew he was, but it didn’t stop him from dropping to his knees beside her. Let the others deal with the fight; they could handle things. Hesitating for only a moment, he reached for her hand, pulling her left arm closer towards him. The right one… he felt sick just looking at it, a tide rising in his stomach. He’d thought himself inured to the effect of seeing things like this, but somehow…

Rage seethed in him, like a fire beneath his skin, terrifying in its intensity. Draco didn’t feel things so strongly, not ever. But right now, the fact that she needed help was the only thing stopping him from killing everyone who approached, and finishing off the man on the ground. It was a dark, roiling anger, and for the first time in his life, he truly understood what it felt like to wish death on someone else. To be willing to _visit_ death on someone else. It was nothing like the petty emotion he’d previously thought was anger—it was as far from that as sunset was from midnight. 

“You have such beautiful eyes,” Luna told him matter-of-factly, and he glanced up sharply, to find that she was, indeed, making an inspection of his eyes. Her face was quite close—he hadn’t noticed her shifting towards him. She smiled, and he felt the anger recede, replaced by something worse still. Her gaze was clouded over, poorly-focused. 

“You can’t even see my eyes,” he countered without heat, looking back down to her arm, trying to make the healing work. Between the fact that he was still getting used to the way his magic worked now and the fact that he was in a terrible mindset for healing, he wasn’t sure it would fucntion. But it had to—he _had_ to succeed at this. Around him, the sounds of conflict raged, the others doing battle with whatever organization was headquartered here, no doubt. He didn’t have the time to care about how they were doing right at this moment, and simply shielded the two of them to avoid being caught in the crossfire. 

He scowled when his efforts scabbed over a total of two of the cuts. For all his power, he couldn’t even…

“Luna, how do I heal you?” He wasn’t sure she’d be able to answer coherently, but he hoped she could. Else he’d have to find a way to switch places with Severus, who was extremely busy just now. 

She studied her own wounds for a moment, tilting her head this way and that. Her gaze tilted upwards, her eyes slightly clearer when she replied. “Do you like me, Draco?”

He stiffened at the question. “This is hardly the time for—”

“ _Do_ you,” she repeated, her emphasis strange but pronounced, “like me?” Her expression was solemn. “Are we… friends?”

His lips parted. “I…” Draco felt a tightness in his chest, a knot of discomfort, but he nodded. “Yes. We are.”

Her expression softened. “Then it’s easy. When you cast the spell, just think about how much you like me.” She blinked slowly, and he could tell she was fading again. Draco knew not if it was really useful advice or some oversimplification born of delirium and blood loss, but it was the only option he had, and so he decided to try it. Patronuses were affected by state of mind, after all, perhaps healing spells were the same. 

He pulled in a deep breath, focusing on his memories of Luna. It was difficult—for almost as long as he’d known her, he’d been resisting her overtures of friendship, resisting the idea of _liking_ her, in any sense of the word. 

He thought first of Hogwarts, of how she’d always been alone when he saw her, of how curious that had made him. Of how disgusted he’d felt when she’d eventually fallen in with Potter and that stupid fan club of his. Of how he’d reached for her in the Astronomy Tower that night, of how it had been the first time he’d ever touched her, of how the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips had halted the tumult in his head, if only for the briefest instant, the same way she’d halted the spinning bits of star-charts and instruments his rage had scattered in the air. 

He remembered waking to her face, in her home, after he’d been hexed. Thinking that she was probably better at her job than any of the so-called healers he regularly saw. Feeling her palm press to his chest, the strange warmth that seeped into him where her magic went. 

Days at the manor, where she woke him every morning by throwing open his blackout curtains, how annoyed he’d been that his wards had no effect on her. But none of his defenses had any effect on Luna—not his magic, not his acid tongue, not all the haughty disdain and emotional distance he could muster. Not his constant insinuations of her incompetence, when he knew her to be anything but. She forgave everything, and he wondered, sometimes, whether he had any power to hurt her at all. 

Draco had _always_ had power over people. Even those he could not physically defeat were subject to his manipulations, to the machinations of his wit, to the sharp edge of his words. But not her—not Luna. She was impervious to everything about him. In their dynamic, the power belonged to her, and her alone. 

He should have hated that. He should have hated how vulnerable it made him. He, who had known from childhood that vulnerability was a greater sin than any worldly vice. But he could not and did not hate her. Instead, he had been drawn into her orbit. She was named for the moon, but it was he who was the satellite, who succumbed to her strange gravity. 

This whole time, he’d supposed he would hurt her someday. At first he’d wanted to, and then, he didn’t, but feared it anyway. 

He’d never realized that she was the one with the ability to hurt him, an ability he somehow knew she would never willingly use. He trusted her. She was dear to him. He wanted her to live, more than he could remember wanting anything, ever. 

“It’s okay,” she said softly, and he felt her fingers on his face. Draco opened his eyes, to find that she was smiling softly at him, her expression unbearably tender. “I’m all right, Draco. You can stop.” 

He looked her over, finding that the cuts had been reduced to thin, pink lines, closed over. Her broken arm was still broken, but he suspected nothing he was capable of would be able to fix a wound that bad. It wasn’t fatal, at least. 

She moved, so that her eyes found his again, and her fingers brushed against his temple as she pushed a lock of his hair back. “Thank you, for coming to find me.” 

He swallowed thickly. “You’re welcome.” He could think of nothing better to say, inane as it made him sound. 

He might have tried to say something else anyway, but at that moment, his shield charm shattered, the blowback lurching them both to the side. Draco surged to his feet, helping Luna stand by gripping her good arm, and stepped in front of her, muttering another incantation beneath his breath.

Before him, her attacker had risen as well, wand clutched tightly, his other hand pressed to the healing wound in his chest. Draco’s jaw tightened; he felt his teeth grind together. 

The man’s eyes lit with recognition. “So it’s you.” He flicked his gaze to Luna, and then back to Draco when the latter shifted to block his line of sight to her. “I didn’t realize she was yours.” This seemed to interest him rather than cause him any discomfiture, something Draco fully intended to change. But first…

“She doesn’t belong to anyone, you piece of shit.”

With one hand, he lowered his shield charm, the other snapping up and firing off a _Bombarda_ , which struck his foe square in the chest, flinging him back several feet and carrying him off his feet. He slammed back into the ground, the thud of his impact loud enough that Draco could hear it even over the other fights going on around him.

* * *

As Draco advanced, the man—Pierre, if Weasley’s description of him was accurate—swiped a thumb over his cut lip, spitting a globule of blood to the side and rising again to his feet, seemingly quite unconcerned. “You know,” he remarked conversationally, shielding himself from Draco’s follow-up blast with a well-timed silent _Finite_ , “It was supposed to be me.”

Ordinarily, Draco might have cared what he meant by that—information, as Severus would say, was something that should be gathered whenever the opportunity was available. But at just this moment, he really couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. “ _Sectumsempra_!” 

Pierre moved aside even while his _Protego_ shattered, so the effect only caught him on the arm, opening another sanguine line. “I was meant to be the harbinger,” he insisted. “The Godspell was to be cast on _me_!” His eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted in a snarl, and he launched a rapid barrage of spellwork, several silent attacks sailing through the air almost at once. Draco deflected a fair number of them, but a lucky jet of sparks breached his defenses, and he braced himself for impact.

“ _Finite Incantatem_!” A rope of violet light crashed into the orange, and both fizzled out. Behind him, he felt a hand curl into his robes, her presence grounding him and urging him forward at the same time. It never occurred to him to tell her to back off or stay safe or leave—even the thought of suggesting it was absurd. 

“I’m tired, Draco,” she warned him, and he supposed she must be, from everything. But he nodded, not daring to turn away from the man in front of them, forcing himself to trust another person to watch his back, to supplement his failings, to fill the gaps in his defense. He resolved not to make it too difficult a task.

* * *

Hermione closed her left eye, forced to do so by the blood tricking from a cut in her temple. Head wounds always bled a lot, she recalled reading at some point, but it didn’t do much more than sting otherwise.

The burns on her left side were a little worse, but she was coping. Harry and Ron were to her left, working their way steadily and defensively through a knot of those who’d attacked them, and to her right, Severus struck like a viper, spells flying from his wand almost faster than Hermione would have thought it possible to hold the incantations in one’s mind. It was beyond fortunate that he could, though; there had to be at least fifty people in this complex, and it seemed that every time one fell to a stunner or body-bind, another simply stepped up to fill the space. 

She felt like she spent most of her time recasting her shield charms, just to make sure that she didn’t get hit with something coming in from the side. 

A small break in the action—her area was temporarily clear—allowed her to track the progress of Draco and Luna with a man whom Ron had identified as one of the leaders of the organization. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Ron’s quick thinking and her own information-tracking skills, they would have spent days looking for this place—days it was now obvious Luna did not have.

She saw Pierre go flying back, crashing into a tree with an audible crack, and Draco and Luna taking several more steps forward, separating to flank him. He seemed unusually resilient, but it was hard to tell exactly what was happening. 

She saw him raise his wand, and then his lips moved, and a shout rose in Hermione’s throat—warning, anguish, she was not sure—as the too-familiar jet of green light jumped from the end of it, headed directly for a weary and stumbling Luna. 

Almost as though she were watching it in slow motion, Hermione saw Draco realize what was happening a split second before Luna did, and then she saw him move, lunging towards her and tackling her to the ground. She saw the green light hit Draco square in the back, and his body, rigid with tension, abruptly go limp. 

“ _No_!” The cry must have been hers—why else would it be so loud? Before she really knew what she was doing, Hermione was sprinting for the spot, because she could see Pierre raising his wand again, pointing it once more at Luna. Hermione lifted her own, firing the strongest body-bind she knew, but it was too late—a second jet of light burst forth from Pierre’s wand—

And rebounded in the air in front of Luna, striking Pierre in the chest, toppling him like a tree to the ground below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please don't kill me. I swear I believe in happy endings. Also, this chapter just got finished today, meaning that I'm finally caught up posting evenly on AO3 and FF.net, for those following in two places. The last chapter will go up on both sites simultaneously. 
> 
> Oh yeah, did I mention that there's only one chapter left?


	21. Chapter Twenty: Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one thing ends, another begins.

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Interrogation Room One_

Hermione stood behind the one-way glass of the interrogation room, her eyes fixed firmly on the scene unfolding before her. Beneath one of her elbows, she had tucked a file: all the research she’d been able to do on this Godspell Luna had mentioned. References to it were obscure, perhaps moreso than any one topic she’d had to look into before, but the name itself had given her what she needed to find the information. It wasn’t the _last_ piece of the puzzle, but the picture was clear enough now, and she’d briefed Harry and Ron on what they needed to know to ask the right questions. 

Beside her, Severus shifted, and her eyes slid to him for a moment. He wore an impassive expression, but his eyes were hard, flinty chips of obsidian, fixed unerringly on their suspect. She turned her gaze back forward, but reached out with her free hand, grasping the sleeve of his robe in a gentle grip. Neither of them said anything. 

From a side door, Harry entered the room, joining Ron and the suspect, who wasn’t really a _suspect_ so much as a known criminal. But there were procedures for these things, and they had to be observed. They had not come this far, sacrificed this much, for some barrister to have all they’d worked for dismissed on a technicality. Every detail of the paperwork was perfect, and though none of them had wanted to wait this long to interrogate their prisoner, they had. 

But Harry carried a dose of _Veritaserum_ , its use approved by no lesser authority than the Minister of Magic himself, and the man, seemingly resigned to his fate, took it willingly enough, smacking his lips in some distaste at the flavor, she assumed. 

“What’s your name?” Ron asked first, tipping his quill up so that it would take dictation, then letting go, leaving it suspended centimeters above the page. 

The man, who had a thin, rodent-like face and a distinct bald patch, answered immediately. “Henri DeSalle.”

The rote record questions included the details of his present occupation and place of residence, none of which were very interesting, but had to be sorted through before the important things could be addressed. It was Harry who started in on those. 

“You’re familiar with a man named Pierre Géroux?”

Henri nodded. “He was a colleague. A stupid, impatient boy, but useful in his own way.” 

“Explain.”

“Our organization required a screen, a distraction, but also one that could provide us a medium for contact with the public. Pierre had a predilection for violence, and sadism, and a talent for magic, including old spells. He could be both, and so the Master made it so.” Henri shrugged his shoulders, adjusting in his seat somewhat uncomfortably. Beads of sweat were beginning to form along his brow; he seemed to be trying to fight the _Veritaserum_. Not that he had a damn chance. Severus had brewed the dose himself.

“Who’s this Master?” Ron probed. Luna had mentioned this, too, Hermione recalled. 

“I don’t know.” Henri shook his head. “None of us knew. Our orders were received anonymously.” 

Ron scowled. “Why obey orders from a man you don’t know?”

Henri pursed his lips, resisting the compulsion to speak the truth, but he was able to hold it in for only a second. “It didn’t matter. He knew us. Things he never should have known, no one could have known. Things I’d told no one, not even my own family. He’s not a man, he’s a god.”

She heard Severus scoff softly, and a quick glance revealed that his eyes had narrowed. Hermione grimaced. That tracked with what they knew, she supposed. Multiple members of the investigation team had noted the arrogance involved in this whole series of events—it wasn’t unbelievable that someone capable of engineering it all would think himself above the rest of humanity. 

“Your organization had a mole in the Ministry. Was it Raphael Walsh?” It was the obvious guess—Walsh had mysteriously disappeared several days ago, in the chaos surrounding Luna’s kidnapping, but he’d left no trace of himself behind. 

Henri nodded. “Yes.”

“And he stole Draco Malfoy’s hair so Pierre could use Polyjuice potion?”

“Yes.”

“Why Malfoy?”

Henri appeared to think that over. “Why use him for the Polyjuice? I’m not sure, exactly. I believe Pierre was jealous of him, and wanted to cast suspicion upon him. Theoretically, he could have used any of the hair in storage here, and it would have served our purposes just as well. The point was to cause strife within the Ministry.” The Veritaserum was clearly very strong, because Henri hadn’t looked like he wanted to say any of that, and his face was paling from strain. 

“Wasn’t just that, though, was it?” Ron broke in this time. “You hexed him yourself, after setting up an ambush for him. That took a lot of work.”

The prisoner bobbed his head. “It did. The Master chose him for that, though. Pierre wanted to be the one, but… when the Master commands, we do as bid.” 

“Right, he called that the Godspell, right? Explain that,” Harry replied. 

Henri’s hands clenched together atop the table, and he visibly blanched, almost choking on his own tongue, heaving forward with a lurch. “The harbinger,” he gasped out, face set into an expression of deep loathing. “He was chosen to be the harbinger of the end. And the herald of the beginning.”

“You’re going to have to explain better than that,” Ron said, his nose wrinkling in clear distaste. Hermione, though, thought she already understood, at least a little. 

“Godspell for gods’ magic,” Henri muttered. “Wizards are incomplete. The spell… completes them. Makes them more. The rest is… I don’t know. Don’t remember.”

Harry grimaced. “We’ll be needing the names of the rest of your organization.”

Henri barked a short laugh. “I don’t know. The only people I met were the ones with me when I was captured. There were other cells, I know, but the Master kept us from each other. I don’t know anything about them.” He straightened as well as he could while bound, and fixed his interrogators with beady blue eyes. 

“Still… it’s unavoidable, you know. The first domino has fallen, the rest will follow. All that is required now is for the natural forces in this world to work as they always have.” He smiled thinly. “The Master knows. He understands. He sees, and everything he sees comes to pass.”

* * *

_St. Mungo’s Hospital, Private Wing_

Cyril Thompson was one of the foremost experts in magical trauma care in the world. He knew this without arrogance, though of course he could be forgiven a bit of pride, he thought. 

And for all that, never in his life had he heard of, much less _seen_ , something quite like this. 

When the others had brought him Mister Malfoy and Miss Lovegood, they had informed him that the young Unspeakable had been hit with a killing curse. Of course, that was patently impossible, because, as Cyril had plainly informed them, he was still very much alive. 

He had, in fact, _been_ alive, until they got him settled in his room in the private wing of St. Mungo’s, and tried to move the unconscious Miss Lovegood to another room. Not a second after she’d been taken from the area, Draco’s pulse had stopped right beneath Cyril’s fingers. He’d attempted to resuscitate the younger man, running through the typical procedures for such a thing, but it had been the quick thinking of Severus Snape that really saved him. 

Draco’s godfather had immediately halted the levitating stretcher moving Miss Lovegood, and guided it back into the room, at which point, with a great shudder and a lurch, Mister Malfoy’s heart had resumed beating. 

At the time, it had made no sense whatsoever, and Severus had not tried to explain, simply commanding that they be kept in the same room until one or both of them awoke. It was three days later that Miss Lovegood finally stirred. Noting the change in her vitals, Thompson entered the room carefully, aware that she could be in a bad state, considering the trauma she had endured immediately before collapse. 

He’d managed to repair her arm the rest of the way, and healed the dozens of cuts she bore from the scabbed pink things they’d been before to lines of pale white, but they were resistant to every spell he knew to remove scarification. It was disconcerting, and he suspected that if he found it so, she would have it so much the worse. Patients had woken from injuries less severe with scars less obvious and suffered from terrible anxious breakdowns at finding their once-familiar bodies unknown and alien to them, carved with reminders of whatever trauma they had endured. He understood the pain of it as well as anyone could, who had not suffered it himself.

He stood a foot or so from her bed, his clipboard clutched too tightly in his hands, watching as her eyes slowly opened. Luna blinked several times, her pupils dilating properly to accommodate the increased light, he noted with customary clinical detachment. 

“Miss Lovegood?” His voice was soft, in an attempt not to startle her. She tilted her head slightly where she lay, her eyes meeting his, and he relaxed only slightly when he detected no panic there. That didn’t mean it would never appear, only that she was, for the moment, sanguine enough. “How do you feel?”

“Oh, quite terrible,” she replied, a tiny smile turning her mouth up at one corner. It faded quickly. “How are the others?” 

“Most everyone had only minor injuries,” he explained. As one healer to another, he decided not to spare the details, knowing they would likely be more comfort than vague platitudes to someone with the medical mindset. “I kept Miss Granger for a day to make sure her burns were fully healed, but she will suffer no lasting effects from them. Aurors Potter and Weasley were seen for a number of lacerations and impacts, and Auror Potter had a broken finger, but they were seen to within a few hours. Mister Snape suffered only a few minor abrasions, which he assured me he could deal with using potions on his own time.” Cyril pursed his lips. Understandably, Snape had been much more concerned about his godson, but still…

“That sounds like him,” Miss Lovegood murmured. “And Draco?”

“Ah…” Cyril hesitated, unsure how to explain the situation, but she seemed almost to know already, and her head turned to where Mister Malfoy lay, in the bed next to her. “Miss Lovegood, don’t—” 

But she ignored him, using her hands to push herself upright, slowly bringing her legs around to the side of the bed. She paused for a moment when her eyes came to rest on her own hands, the backs of which were crisscrossed in little white lines, and he braced himself for any number of adverse reactions, but she only continued to rise, bringing her toes down to the linoleum floor, wincing slightly, but letting her heels fall behind. 

“Miss Lovegood, I really must insist—”

“He won’t heal if I’m this far away,” she replied, an uncharacteristic firmness precluding any further arguments on his part. Cyril had no idea what she was talking about, but since her proximity had saved his life once already and she was a trained mediwitch, he quelled his protestations and instead made himself useful, helping her over to Mister Malfoy’s bedside. 

To his surprise, she bypassed the chair entirely, and sat herself on the edge of the narrow mattress. “Uh—” he started, but she fixed him with a look, and he swallowed his questions, reduced to watching her fold herself onto the hospital bed beside Mister Malfoy, maneuvering one of his arms so as to tuck herself into his side. It certainly didn’t look like any medical procedure he’d ever seen, but when she breathed a sigh, almost too soft to hear, he decided it wasn’t that important anyway. 

“Just hit the rune on the bedside table if you need anything,” he said at last, for lack of anything else to contribute, and she nodded. 

“Thank you, Cyril.”

It was as polite as anything he’d ever heard her say, but it was also obviously a dismissal, and he accepted that, closing the door behind him when he left. He still had to check on Miss Parkinson, after all.

* * *

_Ministry of Magic, Department of Mysteries, Severus Snape’s Office_

Severus folded the missive sharply at its original creases, leaving it on his desk for the moment and beginning to gather his spare belongings. He’d just received word that Miss Lovegood had regained consciousness; it was imperative that he be allowed to assess her condition, and that of his godson, as soon as possible.

He had not explained what occurred to Healer Thompson because he barely understood it himself. At a guess, he believed Miss Lovegood had kept Draco from dying as a result of the killing curse by entwining their magic to such a degree that his very life had become parasitic on hers—she became what muggles might have referred to as a life-support system. Her magic kept his heart beating, and breath moving in and out of his lungs, as well as providing the necessary support for brain activity. 

Nothing else explained the evidence he had: the fact that too much proximity between them had nearly killed Draco, and the fact that, to the othersight in the moment he’d returned her to the room, they appeared to be more one entity than two, the thick green ropes of his godson’s magic threaded through with delicate strands of violet. But it was impossible to say what was really going on—nothing like this had ever happened before, to his knowledge. He wasn’t sure if it was conscious, reversible, both, or neither. He could not say if whatever it was would be enough to wake Draco, or simply enough to keep his body functioning, bereft of true life. 

He put it down to his preoccupation with such questions that he did not notice Hermione until she cleared her throat, hand raised to knock on his doorframe. The door itself stood ajar, and he paused in his motions, stilling and meeting her eyes. He was unsure why she was present. She, too, held parchment in her hands, though from the angle she held it at, she could see that it bore the seal of the Department of Mysteries, rather than St. Mungo’s. 

“Severus? Do you have a moment?” He studied her face, noting the way her mouth was downturned and her brows drawn together, the way she seemed to be straining against her own efforts to remain still, and exhaled softly through his nose. 

“What is it?”

She half-smiled, her eyes warming slightly, and her posture eased. “Um, actually, it’s not anything bad, I don’t think. I just, ah… wanted to talk to you about it before I made any decisions.”

Seeing as how that was an elaboration rather than an answer, he raised one eyebrow, allowing her to infer what he meant by it. He had no doubt she would understand, and like clockwork, she flushed slightly, her cheeks pinking a few shades. “Right, that wasn’t what you asked. Um. I’ve been offered a job with the Department of Mysteries. In the Research and Development division.” The last two sentences ran together as she expelled them in a rush, biting her lip once they were out. 

He blinked, uncomprehending of the issue this caused. “You have my congratulations,” he said, his tone measured. “You are more than qualified for such a posting, should you desire to pursue it.” He expected that she would; research was clearly her strong suit, and he doubted she would make much distinction between doing that at the library and doing it at the Ministry. If anything, Unspeakables had access to _more_ material than even scholars at international centers of learning such as Alexandria. 

“I…” she hesitated. “I want to take it.”

Severus felt his second eyebrow join the first, allowing his incredulity to be expressed in broad strokes. “So accept the offer. Unless there is some problem? Is the compensation inadequate?”

She shook her head. “N-no. It’s, um. It’s you, Severus.”

Abruptly, he schooled his features back into neutrality. Snape had never been one to jump to unwarranted conclusions, not really. Only at his worst had he ever done so, and he didn’t intend to begin again now. He knew she enjoyed working with him. He knew quite a bit more than that, in fact. He also knew that eventually, she would move past whatever absurd infatuation she believed herself to have for him, and realize her affections were best spent elsewhere. But he did not take her for the sort who would believe she needed to remove herself from his academic company as well as the personal sort when that happened. 

“I don’t want… do I… annoy you?” She sounded so unsure of herself, so tentative, that he felt his lip beginning to curl in distaste, but suppressed it. 

“I am sure you remember your days as a student well enough to know what my annoyance looks like,” he informed her coolly. “Tell me, does that in any way resemble our more recent collaboration?” 

Her bottom lip began to pale where she was biting it. He wished she wouldn’t. “No,” she said at last. “But… we were different then. _This_ was different.” She gestured between them with her hand, and he finally grasped her meaning. 

For a moment, heavy silence settled over the room, but then Severus shook his head slowly. “It has,” he agreed softly. “And we have. But you must not compromise your career and your happiness for fear of causing someone else discomfort. There will be enough people trying to suppress you, to keep you from advancing; there is no need to invent more obstacles. Do not concern yourself with me.”

She huffed something like a laugh, shaking her head. “I can’t _not_ concern myself with you, Severus. That’s the point.”

He pursed his lips. “Yes, well… in any case, your presence here will be no imposition to me, Hermione. On the contrary, I might find it… _pleasant_.” It was all he could give. 

He almost felt guilty when she received it with a bright smile, as though it had been more than the paltry offering it was. “All right, then.”

* * *

_St. Mungo’s Hospital, Private Wing_

She felt it, when he woke. 

Long before the physical stirring, in fact. Luna felt Draco’s magic slowly awakening again in his system, where before it had fallen into a strange dormancy that she didn’t quite understand. She hadn’t known, exactly, what she was doing when she merged their magic in the first place, only intuited at some instinctive level that she could save him by doing it. That had been enough for her. 

She pulled her own magic back a little, beginning to unwind them into two separate entities again, when a pained groan stopped her. She stilled the retreat, electing to leave things as they were for a while, at least until he could help. The arm that he’d banded around her waist at some point tightened, pulling her flush against his side, and she reveled in the little flutter this produced in her stomach. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have to be, of course—he hadn’t consented to this arrangement, after all, but it was easier to connect their magic and work through the connection when they were in close spatial proximity. 

She believed he would understand.

Eyes still closed, he tipped his head, nudging his nose into her neck, as if he were only resistant to waking, as he had been every morning she’d seen him attempt to drag himself out of bed. Suppressing a giggle, she touched his shoulder, extricating the necessary hand from where it was wedged between them. He was on his back, so to fit, she’d had to turn on her side. 

“Draco,” she whispered, tapping him gently. 

He grumbled something and held her closer, but she was insistent. If he moved her any more, she’d end up draped over his chest like a human blanket, and she didn’t think he’d be too pleased by such a development. “Draco, please let me go.”

“What…?” his voice was still a groggy drawl, but that got him to open his eyes, at least, and he blinked languidly down at her a few times before her presence seemed to properly register. The look on his face was strange—she could not place it. His brows knitted together, his mouth slightly downturned, but he made no attempt to push her away, and he didn’t scold her for whatever reason he thought had caused their present closeness. Instead, he seemed almost to be… studying her, as though she were something he didn’t quite understand. 

“Luna,” he said at last, his voice clearer, but neutral. “What are you doing in my bed?” He didn’t let go of her. 

She smiled dreamily. “Didn’t you know, Draco? This is the best angle from which to heal friends who saved your life.” 

His eyes narrowed, but he was still uncharacteristically silent, and her smile slowly faded. He wasn’t insisting that she go, and truly she had no desire to leave, so she didn’t, instead settling herself back down, letting her head rest on his chest. She could hear the beat of his heart, strong and steady, and let the sound lull her, a soft sigh passing her lips. 

It didn’t take long for his thumb to begin stroking absently at the small of her back, but she didn’t call attention to it. After three days in St. Mungo’s, both of them smelled like hospital sanitization spells, but they were clean, and there was still a hint of his usual woodsy scent underneath it, so she didn’t mind. 

“I… died.” 

He sounded unsure, which she supposed she could understand, considering that he was obviously not dead now. 

“Just for a moment,” she murmured, staring at where her hand rested beside her face. His skin was warm, even beneath the white hospital robes. Luna wasn’t sure she should tell him how she’d felt in that moment. It seemed like too much to think about right now. 

“How… how am I alive?” 

She closed her eyes, her fingers curling in the linen fabric. “Old magic.”

The words hung there for a long time, the silence an almost sacred thing. They’d get around to the technical explanation some other time. It didn’t matter just now. 

“Are you… are you all right?” She opened her eyes and tilted her head to see his face, but he was looking at her forearm, exposed by the way it rested against him. Luna swallowed. 

“No,” she admitted. “But I will be.”

He tensed underneath her. “Luna—”

She pushed herself up so she could see him properly, leaving her palm braced against his heart, while her other hand on the mattress bore most of her weight. “I hope you aren’t about to apologize to me, Draco Malfoy,” she said. “What happened was not your fault. I volunteered to be captured, you know that. And that man… he didn’t have to hurt me. That was his choice alone, and the fault for it is his.” She paused, letting her expression soften. 

“Besides,” she continued, “I just proved my favorite hypothesis.” 

He arched a brow. “The existence of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack?” 

She felt a little something inside herself melt, and shook her head. “No, silly. That Draco Abraxas Malfoy can be just as brave, and just as good, as anyone else.” She leaned down, touching her forehead to his, smiling when their eyelashes brushed, heedless of the fact that his hand had fisted in her hospital robe. 

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she informed him mildly, “unless you don’t want—” 

Her warning was cut off when his free hand slid up to her nape, gently pulling her down the last few inches and touching her lips to his. Luna didn’t know a great deal about kissing—she supposed it was something most people learned in school, but no one wanted to kiss the class freak, so she’d simply never acquired much by way of experience. 

But for all that, she was quite sure not every kiss felt like this one did, like some little dam in her heart had burst, flooding her with an alien sensation she could only compare to nervousness, but without the worry. It was a slow thing, a brush of the lips, and then another, one that lingered, and she discovered that his mouth tasted sweeter than she would have thought. He was careful, she could tell, every touch purposefully soft, the hand at the back of her neck carding into her hair, and he made a dissatisfied sound when she pulled back. 

“Our friends are down the hallway,” she said, “I don’t think you want them to find us like this.”

He grumbled something incomprehensible that sounded vaguely profane, but released her, letting her pull herself into a seated position and raise his bed so that he was inclined upwards. She twined her hand with his, though, and he allowed it, squeezing hers briefly before they both turned at the sound of the door opening. Luna wore a smile as Harry, Ron, Severus, Hermione, Healer Thompson, and Draco’s parents all filed into the room, and a glance sideways at him confirmed that, though he did not smile himself, he was relaxed, free of tension, and content. 

Her smile inched just a fraction wider, and she turned back to their guests. 

“Guess who just woke up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four years later, I’ve finally finished this fic. I suppose if nothing else, I’ve stuck to my word in that respect, which I’m glad about. 
> 
> It was written when I’d only just started thinking seriously about writing, in fits and starts, with gaps in it a year long in places, and it has more flaws than I could properly name, both in terms of plot and style. But… for all that, I learned a lot while writing it, and I don’t completely hate the end product, which is rare for me. 
> 
> Obviously, the story itself isn’t over, in the sense that there are still some lingering questions and plot points, and of course the relationships here have a lot more growing to do. I hope to write those stories someday, but for now, I’ll be taking a break from this AU of mine and writing in another fandom. If anyone reads or watches Bleach (the manga/anime), that’s where I’ll be for the foreseeable future. 
> 
> I wanted to thank those of you who joined me for all or part of this four-year journey into storytelling and self-improvement. I’ve had the privilege of speaking to some of you, through reviews or PMs or whatever, and I wanted to let you know how awesome that was for me. One of the very best things about fanfiction and transformative work, I think, is the ability to meet other people who like the same things you do, which is not always easy in “real life.”
> 
> So, you know, if anyone ever has the urge to send me a message for whatever reason, I’d love to hear from you. 
> 
> As always, as ever, reviews desired, but not required.


End file.
